


The Untold Stories

by Aggie2011



Series: Vantage Point Universe [30]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Family, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-04-13
Packaged: 2018-05-29 16:52:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 130,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6384622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aggie2011/pseuds/Aggie2011
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loki came and named himself a king. He conscripted Clint into his army. In the end they won, but they paid for that victory with the blood of friends...with the blood of family. This is the story of the "Loki Incident" and all that came after through the eyes of SHIELD's most tightly knit family - Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, and Phil Coulson. *Vantage Point Universe*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You Said You Was King

_Disclaimer: I do not own "The Avengers" or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works. I do not claim any of the directly quoted lines from "The Avengers" as my own, they belong to Marvel and the writers. The cover art came from a google search with the original source being pinterest where it was credited to Anthony Genuardi._

_Author's Note: While I embrace_ **_constructive_ ** _criticism, remember this old saying if you choose to leave a review "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all"_

* * *

_Here we are once again with another multi-chapter installment to the Vantage Point Universe. This story has been greatly anticipated by many of you and has been a LONG time coming. This story was a very long road for me. As many of you know, I started it probably over a year ago. And since then, life has thrown me a few pretty intense curve balls. This story served as its own sort of therapy for me at times, and was definitely a source of catharsis when I needed it. I'm very happy now, to be able to share it with you._

_The reaction to my tumblr announcement (find me there at aggie2011whoop) that this story was going live today was EPIC and filled me with so much joy. I'm so happy to bring this story to you and have it mean so much. As an author, that is my dream, to make readers WANT more. So more is what I'll give you._

_This ended up being the most difficult story to date, for the simple reason that I had to stick to a pre-established plot - namely the move "The Avengers". Not having the freedom to do whatever I wanted was maddening at times. And the trials of trying to piece together a logical timeline were frustrating. But, with the help of my betas, I pushed through and soldiered forward and we are finally here._

_I'd like to take a minute to thank those two betas, who have both been so patient and supportive of me throughout this long, long process. Who the hell knows where I'd be without them. So thank you to_ **Kylen** _and_ **JRBarton.** _You both are amazing and I'm so truly lucky to have you on my team._

_Now, last thing, a word about this story. It is meant to serve as a companion to the movie, not a replacement. This means that there are certain things in the movie that I don't address. This isn't me putting the movie to paper - though there are many many direct quotes throughout - that would be boring and that's not why you're here. This story is meant for one thing, to dive into the point of views of Phil, Natasha, and most importantly Clint throughout the duration of the Loki Incident. I stayed as accurate to the movie as possible, but obviously took some liberties here and there to fit it better into the VPU. There are time/place references throughout the story for the benefit of the reader AND the writer, so we can all keep the timeline straight. Each one has a reference to local time, where they are in that scene, and NYC time, the time in New York where the back half of the story takes place._

_Now, with no more delay, here we have "The Untold Stories"_

* * *

_The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting._  
_**Sun Tzu** _

* * *

_April 10, 2012_  
8:47 p.m. Local Time (10:47 p.m. NYC)  
SHIELD Accelerator Test Facility, New Mexico

* * *

Clint adjusted the angle of his laptop screen as he lounged back against the metal frame of his bunk. His computer was braced on his abdomen and leaning back against his raised leg. He waited patiently for the video call to connect. When it did, his screen filled with a sleep tousled, but smiling Natasha Romanoff.

"Morning, beautiful." He smiled warmly. The sight of her waking up was one he'd never get tired of. No make-up. Hair a mess. That sleepy little grin when she would roll over and look at him. There was nothing sexier, nothing he'd rather wake up to every morning.

But he hadn't been expecting it. It was almost 7 in the morning there and Natasha had always been an early riser.

"Were you still sleeping?" he asked with a sort of disbelieving curiosity.

She yawned and snuggled farther into her pillow even as she used one hand to adjust her own laptop screen.

"No, just taking my time getting up. Gonna be a long night, so I don't want to rush it."

"Well, well, Natasha Romanoff lounging in bed…and I'm across the world. There's no justice." Just _thinking_ of the fun they could be having if he _were_ there, had him shifting on his bunk.

She smiled and laughed lightly, folding her pillow a little more compactly under her chin.

"I'll just have to make it up to you when I get back," she promised. He grinned deviously and she went on before he could put words to his lust filled train of thought. "So what are you up to?" She narrowed her eyes slightly, seeming to silently order him _not_ to ignore the subject change. "Phil give you the night off?"

"Not specifically, but my time's my own unless I'm needed."

"Generous of him."

"Yeah, well, I think he feels guilty for keeping me cooped up here the past few weeks."

She smiled knowingly.

"You climbing the walls yet?" Her lips quirked in a teasing grin.

"Only when there's a bunch of scientists around to freak out. I think I heard one of them mention something about DNA splicing with a monkey."

Natasha laughed and the sound made Clint's smile widen.

"Why am I not surprised you've _literally_ been climbing walls." She shook her head slightly, still grinning. "I'm surprised they haven't taken you in for testing and experimentation."

"Yeah, well, apparently this tesseract thing is all the shit. It's got all the nerds in quite the tizzy. No time for little old me."

"Tizzy, huh?" She smirked.

"Oh yeah, Selvig practically salivates over it. But there's no denying the man knows a thing or two…to hear him tell it, he's on the verge of a breakthrough."

Clint wasn't so convinced. As far as he'd seen, Selvig hadn't made nearly as much progress as the man wanted to claim and didn't understand the tesseract _nearly_ as much as he tried to pretend. Clint's admittedly not-so-tactful comment stating just that had created a tension between them that didn't show any signs of dissipating.

"What's your take?" Natasha asked curiously.

"I think we're messing with shit we won't ever understand." Clint sighed and rubbed a hand through his hair. "I don't know…I just have a feeling like we should just be leaving well enough the hell alone."

"You tell Phil that?"

He _had_ …quite colorfully.

"In just as many words, but it's not his call. And it's sure as hell not mine. So we do what we do until we're told differently…which sucks by the way."

Natasha quirked her lips sympathetically. He knew she understood. That she knew Clint didn't do inaction well. All the sitting and watching was starting to wear thin. At least when he sat and watched as a sniper, it was leading to something. This was just endless and monotonous. He was glorified security.

Phil had told him he should feel honored. Fury had chosen him specifically for this detail. The tesseract was possibly the most important scientific discovery of the last few decades, Captain America's defrosting not included. That the director trusted _Clint_ to keep an eye on things should say a lot.

Clint was pretty sure he was just being punished for something. He just hadn't figured out what.

He shook his head slightly and changed the subject.

"What about you? You locate Luchkov?"

She nodded and ran a hand through her hair as she shifted. Clint's breath caught momentarily. It had been months since Germany, but seeing her once-long hair so dramatically short still caught him off guard. She claimed to be getting used to it, but he could tell she longed for it to grow back out again. Clint considered her drop-dead beautiful either way, but the sooner all traces of that horrific experience in Germany were gone, the better.

"Hey?" She frowned at him in concern and he shifted, raising his eyebrows in question. "Where'd you go?"

"Nowhere," he assured, "just wandering." She arched her eyebrow doubtfully and he quirked his lips in a slight smile. "Your hair…" he motioned vaguely at his own head, "I'm just not used to it yet."

Her hand shifted to run through the short locks again, with a hint of self-consciousness that was so out of tune with who she was that it made Clint's heart ache.

"You're beautiful," he stated in a low, warm tone. He knew pitching his voice like that _always_ got to her. Sure enough, her green eyes slid back to meet his and she smiled, all hints of self-consciousness fading. Clint smiled back and then changed the subject, for both their sakes. What happened in Germany…and after… was still too fresh – for both of them.

"You said you found Luchkov?"

"Yeah," she nodded, and he could see her mental gears shifting into 'spy-mode' as she went on, "I'm going to move on him tonight."

"What's your play?"

She smirked. Clint knew that smirk. He knew _exactly_ what that smirk meant.

"You know I hate it when you do that without backup."

She shrugged a shoulder and shifted to sitting, pulling the laptop into her lap.

"Clint, I've been running that play since I got into the game. I could do it with my hands tied behind my back." She smirked. "Which is kind of the whole point."

Clint rolled his eyes. She was right, of course. She was an expert in her field. This particular con – he liked to call it the Trojan Horse – was practically her specialty. Get yourself captured, find out what you need to know, and then rip them apart from the inside out. She was great at it, had used it more times than he could count with undeniable success.

"I know, but I'd just feel better if you had backup." It wasn't even about her being able to take care of herself. He knew she could. _She_ knew that _he_ knew that. It was about _him_ , worrying and caring and living with the fear of not being able to get to her in time if something went wrong. Germany had screwed them both up in its own ways.

She knew all that too, which was why she just smiled.

"And who would I trust to back me up, but you?" It wasn't really a comfort, but then it hadn't been meant to be. "Besides, Luchkov is practically a soft target. He'll fold in under an hour and give me everything I need."

Clint was sure he would, Natasha was the best at her job for a reason. Didn't make it any easier to be a world away, to be too far, maybe, if she needed him.

A sudden pounding on his door drew his attention and had him sitting up straighter. The back of his neck tingled and something in his gut tightened.

Something was wrong.

"What's going on?" Natasha asked sharply, no doubt hearing the pounding and correctly interpreting the sudden change in his expression.

"Not sure. Hold on." He stood, holding the base of the laptop in one hand as he moved to the door. He pulled it open to reveal a red-faced, panting agent wearing security gear.

"Agent Barton?"

Clint eyed the strip of masking tape on his door that had his name scrawled on it in black sharpie. He let that be answer enough for _that_ and waited for the young agent tell him what he needed.

"Agent Coulson, he sent me to get you."

Adrenaline surged through him. Something was definitely wrong.

He turned away from the door, lifting the laptop so he could see Natasha again and mostly closing the door so the agent couldn't snoop.

"Tash, I gotta go."

"Everything okay?"

"Jury's out, but my card's been called."

She nodded.

"Go, I'll be stateside in a few days and I'll find a reason to end up in New Mexico."

Clint smiled at the promise but then his expression turned serious and he lowered his voice.

"I know Luchkov is a soft target, but...Будьте безопасны, мой огненный паук." _(Be safe, my fiery spider.)_

Her smile grew wider and warmer at the familiar words and she replied,

"Стрелять прямо, мой ястреб." _(Shoot straight, my hawk.)_

He winked and grinned.

"Всегда." _(Always.)_

She ended the call and he closed his laptop, tossing it towards his bed. He watched to make sure it landed safely even as he pulled the door back open. The agent sent to fetch him was rocking impatiently back and forth on his heels.

"Where's Agent Coulson?" Clint demanded as he stepped out into the hall and pulled his door closed behind him.

"In the tesseract room." The agent – McGuire according to the name tag on his uniform – replied immediately. Clint nodded and took off in a jog.

His instincts were going off like an alarm. Something was wrong. He could feel it. The sooner he had eyes on Phil, the better.

* * *

Phil stood with his arms crossed over his chest just behind Erik Selvig's left shoulder. He watched with rapt attention as the scientist typed furiously on his computer.

"Anything yet?" he asked, checking his watch. Four minutes had passed.

"Not yet," Selvig replied without breaking pace on his work. "You'll be the first to know when there is progress."

Phil clenched his jaw and looked up when he sensed a new presence. Clint jogged through the door and headed for them.

"What's going on?" his agent asked as he joined them and peeked over Selvig's shoulder.

"There was an energy surge in the tesseract," Phil filled him in.

Clint frowned, arching a skeptical eyebrow at Selvig.

"You turned it on?" Clint rarely used what one would call a judgmental tone, but he'd made it no secret to Phil that he thought they were messing with powers they had no business messing with. And there was no mistaking the judgement in his tone now. Phil winced slightly. Clint and Selvig had a… _strained_ working relationship. The reason for which, Phil didn't know. Though if he had to guess, he'd bet it had something to do with Clint's unsolicited opinions on SHIELD's – and thereby Selvig's – work with the tesseract.

He glanced at Selvig, hoping he didn't take offense.

The doctor lifted his head and turned it to meet Clint's piercing gaze squarely.

"No."

The simple, but telling response, had Clint's eyes widening in realization and looking to Phil.

"Where do you want me?"

Phil would forever be grateful for Clint's uncanny ability to perceive the gravity of situations without having to be told.

"Find a perch. Keep an eye on things… _all_ things. We don't know what happened and until we do, I don't want anybody scratching their nose in this room without you knowing about it. Use your phone, vet everyone that's had access to this thing in the last 12 hours."

Clint nodded sharply and headed immediately for the ladder that would take him up into the catwalks that ran above them. Phil watched him go and then turned back to Selvig.

"Any progress?"

"In the last 30 seconds? No." Selvig sighed. "I'm working as quickly as I can. I'm trying to shut her down, but she's not cooperating. Give me some time."

Phil sighed and looked up to where Clint was settling in on the catwalk in a crouch, arms hooked over the bar that ran parallel between the rail and the base of the structure, phone already in hand and brow furrowed. He would be able to see the entire room from that vantage point and Phil knew that even with his focus apparently on his phone, Clint was tuned into the entire room.

Phil nodded, satisfied with _that_ at least, and then looked around the room. There were agents and scientists alike working various jobs throughout the room, and exponentially more spread throughout the facility. If they couldn't shut it down and it came to an evacuation, it would take hours to get everyone out.

He turned back to Selvig.

"You've got an hour, then I'm making the call."

* * *

 _April 11, 2012_  
12:39 a.m. Local Time (2:39 a.m. NYC)  
SHIELD _Accelerator Test Facility, New Mexico_

* * *

Phil narrowed his eyes, watching the helicopter as it continued towards the facility. It would touch down in less than a minute and then he'd get to tell the Director of SHIELD how he let this all get so out of hand.

The tesseract was, for all intents and purposes, doing whatever the hell it wanted, no matter what Selvig did. The instability of the situation grew with every passing moment. And like Clint had said, they didn't have a clue what they were really dealing with. The energy surge could mean _anything_ and that thought alone was cause for concern.

He really tried not to think about the fact that he'd ordered Clint to stay _in_ the room with the damn thing. If something went _more_ wrong, his agent would be at ground zero. That thought was enough for him to seek distraction. Luckily, the chopper was landing.

A few moments later Hill and then Fury were climbing out and heading for him.

"How bad is it?" Fury asked without preamble. Phil understood, this type of situation negated the use of pleasantries. But damn, was that not the question of the hour and the _one_ he didn't have an answer for.

"That's the problem, sir. We don't know."

Lack of knowledge in a field like theirs, which was built on intelligence gathering, felt like going into a gun battle without ammunition.

They moved quickly to the elevator access that would take them down to the level of the tesseract room. Once they were in and moving, Phil began his explanation.

"Doctor Selvig read an energy surge from the tesseract room four hours ago."

Fury frowned as the elevator reached the correct floor and they stepped out, moving through the throngs of evacuating personnel.

"NASA didn't authorize Selvig to go to test phase," Fury pointed out.

"He wasn't testing it. He wasn't even in the room. Spontaneous event," Phil explained. And _that_ brought to light a whole new slew of concerns.

"It just turned itself on?" Hill questioned in disbelief.

Phil just tossed her a look and let that be answer enough.

"Where are the energy levels now?" Fury demanded, tone nothing but business.

"Climbing. When Selvig couldn't shut it down, we ordered an evac." Phil was still worried he'd waited too long to make that call. That he'd cut it too close.

"How long to get everyone out?" Fury asked as he glanced around at the masses of people moving around them.

"Campus should be clear in the next half hour."

"Do better." The order was clear. Fury wanted him directly overseeing the evac, making sure the pace continued, or improved. It meant he wouldn't be going back to the tesseract room, wouldn't be going back to Clint.

Phil wanted to buck against the order, but instead he turned away and headed the other direction. But every step – as it took him farther and farther from Clint – felt wrong. Clint, as usual, was right in the thick of things, going toe-to-toe with danger with no regard for his own safety. Clint would sooner complain at getting ordered to safety than ordered into the fight. It was his nature. Phil admired him for it.

But this was different, right now the enemy didn't have a face. And Phil feared that all too soon it would, and that _that_ face would be unlike anything they'd ever seen.

Phil forced himself to keep moving, to trust the one thing that had always proved unshakable no matter how bad the situation got.

Clint's ability to survive.

* * *

Nick continued through the base with Agent Hill, trying to convince himself that this wasn't as bad as it seemed. That they were just being cautious and that Selvig would have this all figured out by the time he got to them.

"Sir, evacuation may be futile." And there was Maria Hill, ever the voice of calm, rational reason. It was why she had risen through the ranks so quickly, why she'd taken the coveted spot as his deputy director.

She was here because she called a spade a goddamned spade. Rose-colored glasses weren't even in her wardrobe. But sometimes she had a tendency to point out the goddamned obvious.

"We should tell them to go back to sleep?" he questioned sarcastically.

"If we can't control the tesseract's energy, there may not _be_ a minimum safe distance," she pointed out logically.

Nick barely resisted the urge to roll his one good eye. What did she want them to do? Stay put and wait? The personnel may already be the walking dead, but they needed to believe they had a fighting chance. So they would continue the evacuation even if it _was_ futile. And speaking of…

"I need you to make sure the Phase Two prototypes are shipped out."

She stared in shock.

"Sir, is that really a priority right now?"

Now Nick turned. He valued her opinion – above all but perhaps Phil Coulson's – but when he gave an order, he expected it to be followed. No matter what certain _other_ agents under his command, namely _one_ , seemed to think.

"Until such time as the world ends, we will act as though it intends to spin on," he told her sharply. "Clear out the tech below. Every piece of Phase Two on a truck and gone."

She nodded sharply, looking a shade less rebellious in the face of his stern tone.

"Yes, sir." Now that was more like it. She looked to the guards standing nearby. "With me." And then she was gone. Nick blew out a breath and headed into the tesseract room.

He made a beeline for Doctor Selvig, wondering where Agent Barton was and why he wasn't glued Selvig's side monitoring his progress.

"Talk to me, Doctor."

And Selvig told him everything he knew. Nick was frustrated to learn absolutely nothing new from the short conversation with the scientist…until he mentioned gamma radiation and had the nerve to say it lacked the ability to do harm. Nick happened to know a certain other scientist who would emphatically disagree.

"That can be harmful," he corrected firmly before glancing around. "Where's Agent Barton?"

Selvig looked up.

"The Hawk? Up in his nest, as usual."

Fury frowned at the trace of annoyance in the doctor's tone. Barton was apparently making friends just as effectively as he always did. How one man could repel people in one breath and draw them to him in the next wasn't even the most intriguing contradiction in all that made Clint Barton who he was.

Nick looked up – realizing he really shouldn't be surprised the archer was watching from a vantage point – and scanned the catwalks until he saw Barton lounging comfortably, looking directly back at him as if he'd been waiting for Fury to finally spot him.

"Agent Barton," he called over the radio. "Report."

Barton moved immediately, practically leaping off the catwalk as soon as his hand had purchase on the rope attached to the railing. His repelled down to the ground floor with smooth ease and headed Fury's way. _Why_ he couldn't spare the extra few seconds it would have taken to use the ladder would apparently remain a mystery.

"I gave you this detail so you could keep a close eye on things." Fury made sure to keep his tone firm. He was mostly just saying it because it was expected – because Barton might just faint from shock if Nick didn't call him to task for keeping his distance in such a critical situation. But Nick knew that Barton had his own way of doing things – always had. He'd never been anything but effective.

"I see better from a distance," came Barton's quick and unaffected reply. Nick had known 'stern' would have no effect; he'd have been disappointed if it had.

"Have you _seen_ anything that might set this thing off?" Nick trusted that nothing would have gotten past the archer's sharp eyes. Seeing the big picture was what Barton _did_. It was why he was the best at his job.

They both stepped farther away from Selvig and his computer even as a scientist shouted about the tesseract spiking again. Together, they moved towards the glowing cube.

"No one's come and gone. And Selvig's clean. No contacts, no IMs. If there's any tampering, _sir_ , it wasn't on this end."

Fury ignored Barton's typical hint of insubordination with his inflection of 'sir' and focused instead on his final assessment.

"At this end?" he asked warily. Barton had figured out something Nick was still missing. Something Selvig apparently hadn't deduced.

"Yeah." Barton replied as if it were an obvious conclusion. "The cube is a doorway to the other end of space, right?" Barton looked to the cube. "Doors open from both sides."

Fury was in the middle of marveling at how he'd managed to be surprised by Barton's inherent perceptiveness and intelligence after all these years when the tesseract sparked.

They both looked at it as behind them Selvig spoke.

"What's that?"

It sparked again.

* * *

Clint shifted, opening his mouth to suggest they back the hell up. The last thing he wanted was to be standing right next to the damn thing if it blew up or something.

He never got a chance to say the words. Abruptly, the cube sparked bigger and then exploded in a beam of energy that startled them both back a step.

He stared in wide eyed shock as a figure of a man appeared in the fading light of the…portal?

What the _hell_?

He _had_ just said it was a doorway. So why was he so surprised that someone was _using_ it?

The man was kneeling, head bowed. For a long moment, the entire room was deadly silent. Then the intruder lifted his gaze.

Clint had seen enough power-hungry, evil men in his twenty-six years to recognize those qualities when he saw them. And the smile that curved that man's mouth practically bled them both.

The man stood and Clint's hand drifted to his side arm, almost saying 'screw it' to all their protocol on engaging hostiles. For once he'd like to fire _before_ they could be fired upon. But next to him Fury spoke, staying Clint's hand and drawing the intruder's attention.

"Sir, please put down the spear!"

Clint almost rolled his eyes. Fury _would_ choose _now_ to go with polite diplomacy. But the talk of the spear drew Clint's attention to it. He knew weapons, and _that_ was definitely a weapon. He saw the energy build in it a moment before the hostile pointed it in their direction.

It was that split second of warning – of him realizing there was a threat – that saved his and Fury's lives because he was able to shove the director out of the way.

He rolled with the momentum of his own dive and came to his knees, side arm already drawn. He didn't wish for his bow, didn't waste the time. Gun or bow, his aim would be true. And it was, but the bullets had no effect. Before he could puzzle over that for more than a breath, Clint saw the energy build in the spear again and dove to his right, narrowly avoiding the energy beam a second time.

He came to his feet, watching as the intruder fired on the scientists and agents who were nearest. Clint moved towards him, intent on stopping him, or at the very least drawing his fire so the others could get to safety and he could buy Fury time.

He brought his gun up, figuring a head shot would be his best bet, but the enemy caught hold of his arm. The strength in the grip ground the bones of his forearm together and drew a startled wince. He'd never felt strength like that. He tried to free himself, but couldn't even manage to make the man's grip shift. Just when he was sure the bastard was going to just break his arm right then and there, he cocked his ebony-haired head to the side and met Clint's rebellious gaze.

"You have heart."

What the _fuck?_ Clint drew in a breath to spit back something sarcastic that was sure to get him killed when the intruder touched the tip of the spear to his chest.

Ice rushed through his veins like wild fire, freezing and burning at the same time. He drew in a startled gasp as it overwhelmed him and then crested like a wave, rushing back through him in a torrent and washing away everything in its path. Every trace of free thought, every emotion…it just bled away, leaving behind nothing but his ingrained, battle-hardened instincts and an overwhelming compulsion to _obey_.

He looked at the man before him and felt a swell of loyalty. But on its heels came a trickle of doubt. He knew in his head that he would do whatever this man asked of him, giving everything up to and including his life. But at the same time, he felt no basis for that loyalty, no reason to offer it. But still it was there – the compulsion so strong it overshadowed almost everything else.

Before he could think too long about what that meant, a single thought suddenly reverberated through and overwhelmed his consciousness.

_Put your gun away._

Something in him twitched, like an itch that demanded to be scratched, but at the same couldn't be reached. It made him pause, but only for a moment.

Then he slid his gun into its holster and waited. The man before him had a plan – that much was obvious. Clint would help him execute it. He would do what was needed. He'd be the warrior he'd been bred to be.

But still, that itch remained – a tickle like when you held your hand above a flame, far enough away not to be burned, but close enough to feel the brush of the heat. It was nestled somewhere in the back of his mind, demanding attention, but at the same time, staying just out of reach.

* * *

Nick carefully grabbed the cube, moving it to its case and shooting a nervous look at Barton. The archer was a lot of things, and compliant wasn't one of them. Whatever that spear had done, it was damn powerful. He'd known Barton to go toe-to-toe with an armed enemy, with nothing but his own body and his sharp tongue to do battle with. He'd _never_ seen him back down, not even to him and not even to the Council.

To see him just go still, to see the fight just _drain_ out of him – it was eerie and terrifying. If someone like Clint goddamned Barton could be turned that easily, they were in trouble, serious trouble. Fury stood, eyeing the door.

"Please don't." The enemy turned, looking directly at him as if he'd sensed Fury's plans. "I still need that."

Fury took a slow breath and carefully weighed his options.

"This doesn't have to get any messier," he tried.

"Of course it does," the invader stated plainly. "I've come too far for anything else. I am Loki, of Asgard. And I am burdened with glorious purpose."

Fury felt a shot of trepidation even as he resisted the urge to roll his eye at the melodrama bleeding from the man's voice. The name Loki was familiar in the kind of way that made your gut tighten and your instincts flare. Their intelligence on Thor and the mess with the destroyer in New Mexico was limited – Jane Foster hadn't been all that forthcoming – but they'd learned enough from Selvig to get a pretty good picture of what went down. The most important plot point being that Thor's Asgardian brother, Loki, had been at the center of it. Thor had ended up putting all that to bed, or so they'd thought. They hadn't heard a whisper from Asgard since the day the blonde god had returned home and Fury had counted that as a good thing.

Selvig frowned, as if he were coming to the same realization.

"Loki, brother of Thor?" he asked curiously.

These sons of Odin were turning into a regular thorn in SHIELD's side.

"We have no quarrel with your people." From what Selvig had told them, Loki's beef had been with his brother, everything else had been collateral damage. That begged the question of why the hell he was back and what the hell he wanted.

"An ant has no quarrel with a boot," Loki replied dismissively.

Fury arched an eyebrow.

"You planning on stepping on us?"

Loki smiled again, that slick, worrying smile he'd given them when he first arrived.

"I come with glad tidings, of a world made free."

"Free from _what_?" Fury was sure he wasn't going to like the answer.

"Freedom," Loki answered. "Freedom is life's great lie. Once you accept that, in your heart," he turned and pressed the tip of the spear to Selvig's chest, "you will know peace."

Nick watched the scientist's eyes go black and then fade to an icy blue, just like Barton's had.

_Shit._

This was getting rapidly out of hand. With any luck, Loki would do what villains tended to do best and wax poetic about his grand plan. Then, at least, the energy he could see building from the portal would do its thing and maybe he'd be stopped. Nick was just sorry that Barton, Selvig, and the others still stuck in the room would die too.

But then Nick saw Barton's eyes cut over to the tesseract cloud and he knew it was over. The archer was too damn smart for his own good. Fury tried one, last-ditch effort to stall.

"Yeah, you _say_ peace. I kinda think you mean the other thing."

Barton moved, walking stiffly to Loki's side.

"Sir, Director Fury is stalling." Fury had never missed the sarcastic inflection in the word 'sir' as much as he did right now. To see Barton submit to any authority willingly was unnatural. "This place is about to blow and drop a hundred feet of rock on us. He means to bury us."

The jig was up. He might as well embrace it.

"Like the pharaohs of old."

"He's right," Selvig spoke up. "The portal is collapsing in on itself. We've got maybe two minutes before this goes critical."

Loki looked suddenly full of new purpose.

"Well, then."

Out of nowhere, Barton moved. In the split second it took Nick to process the action, Barton aimed and fired. The shot impacted Nick's body armor with enough staggering force to knock him down and loosen his grip on the case, sending it skittering away. He could only watch as Barton picked it up and followed Loki out of the room without a backward glance.

Nick winced and could only lay there, his body stunned, for several moments. Finally, he was able to force himself to move. He needed to warn everyone. Barton was damn near unstoppable even when people _knew_ he was coming. With the element of surprise and a little Asgardian juice on his side, Fury had little hope that he'd even be slowed down. He had to try though. They were probably heading for the motor pool, looking for a way out.

Hill was there. She could try to stop them.

So Nick sat up, hand going to his chest as he reached for his radio.

"Hill!" he called. "Do you copy?" He didn't wait for a reply before issuing his warning. "Barton," he couldn't believe he was saying the words even as they passed his lips, "has turned."

* * *

" _Barton…has turned."_

Phil snatched his radio off his belt and brought it to his mouth.

"Say again?" he demanded sharply, but Fury ignored him. Another order for Hill came through instead.

" _Get the tesseract. Shut them down."_

"Director?!" Phil called. He had to have heard wrong. Clint wouldn't turn. It wasn't possible. The compound shook around him, but Phil couldn't move. He was frozen, waiting for Fury to make his world start moving again.

" _Barton's been turned, Coulson, that's all I can tell you."_

Phil felt a wave of emotion rise in his throat, threatening to choke him. It wasn't possible. It just _couldn't_ be. He had to find Clint. He had to save him from whatever had happened.

" _Don't even think about it."_ Fury's voice snapped over the radio, sounding out of breath. _"Hill is pursuing."_ He paused and when he spoke again, his voice was quieter, a little gentler. _"There's nothing you can do for him right now. So do your job."_

Phil gripped the radio so tightly his fingers ached and he pressed it against his forehead. Instinct was warring with duty. He had a job to do, he knew that. But _Clint…_

" _Do your job, Phil."_ Fury's voice was commanding now. The breathless quality didn't even begin to take any of the authority out of his tone.

Phil blew out a breath and forced himself to focus. He didn't know what had happened or what was even going on. But he _did_ know he was on the opposite side of the compound from Hill and if Barton was headed that way, Phil had little chance of catching up.

No matter how much his heart demanded he _do something_.

He forced himself to take a deep, calming breath and focused back on his task.

He looked at the agents carrying the cases down the stairs, moving towards them as an explosion rocked the compound, causing the cases to fall.

They were out of time.

"Let's go!" The agents started to reach for the fallen cases. "No, no, no! Leave it! Go!" He urged them down the stairs and followed quickly. He waited until everyone was in the truck and then he climbed in last. "We're clear upstairs, sir. We need to go."

Phil looked back in time to catch sight of Fury's chopper rising from the helipad. The truck sped away even as the chopper moved over them, away from the compound.

Then another explosion, the biggest yet, shook the compound, making the truck jump jarringly.

The ground started to break in a spider web of cracks. Phil could only watch in stunned horror as the road behind them split almost as quickly as they drove, as if hell itself was coming for them. If he stared long enough, he could almost imagine the devil himself giving chase. But then, just as it seemed the ground would break beneath them and swallow them whole, they outran it and left the crumbling ruins behind them.

A shout from the driver caught his attention.

"Director Fury's chopper just went down!"

Phil felt a wave of dread. If they lost Fury and his firm leadership, then the situation had the potential to spiral even farther out of control.

He reached for his radio.

"Director?"

There was no response for a long moment. He tried again, forcing himself to remain calm.

"Director Fury, do you copy?"

The radio crackled to life.

" _The tesseract is with a hostile force. I have men down. Hill?"_

Phil waited with a held breath for Maria to respond.

" _A lot of men still under. Don't know how many survivors."_

Phil breathed a sigh of relief that she, at least, was all right. His thoughts turned to Clint even as Fury spoke again.

" _Sound a general call. I want every living soul not working rescue looking for that briefcase."_

That meant they'd be looking for Clint too…but as what? A hostage or a traitor?

" _Roger that."_ Then Hill went silent, no doubt moving to follow her orders.

" _Coulson, get back to base."_ Phil blinked, drawing his focus back from his spiraling thoughts with only limited success. _"This is a level seven. As of right now…we are at war."_

Phil clenched his jaw.

War.

The direst situation SHIELD could ever fall into and the most important person in the world to him was on the wrong side of the battle lines. He clenched his hand tighter around his radio.

"What do we do?"

Fury didn't answer, but he didn't need to. Phil knew what would happen next. It was the only thing that _could_ happen, the only thing that gave them a chance. It was time to activate the Avengers Initiative. But the one man whose name rested at the top of that list, the first name to ever be added to it, wouldn't be there.

Phil wondered when in the hell had this all gone so wrong. It wasn't supposed to happen like this. When the Avengers went active, Clint was supposed to be there. He was supposed to finally, _finally_ , realize that he was a goddamned _hero_.

Fate was a cruel bitch.

Phil rubbed his face roughly, willing away the emotion that was trying to overwhelm him. He had to focus. He was no good to anyone, especially Clint, if he was an emotional wreck. He had a feeling, Clint was going to need all the help he could get by the end of this.

That thought swiftly brought another. There was someone else that would be vital to saving Clint – to making sure _saving_ him was a priority. Someone who would fight beside him just as fiercely to see their archer safely returned.

He had to find Natasha.

* * *

_End of Chapter 1_

_And we're off again! This chapter was a lot of set up, just like the first few minutes of any movie. But things get rolling really quickly. This one is a doozy, sitting at 17 chapters and WELL over 100K words. So it'll be a fun, long ride._

_Drop me a line, let me know if you're excited to join me on this new adventure! Let me know how you liked the kick-off chapter! :D_

_Until tomorrow, here's your preview:_

* * *

_She reached up and rubbed her eyes wearily._

_"There are more subtle ways to keep me from looking for him myself. You don't have to send me to India."_

_"I think we both know sending you to India is one of the **only** ways to stop you."_

_Natasha frowned._

_"Exactly how long has Clint been missing?"_


	2. You Lied Through Your Teeth

_Disclaimer: I do not own "The Avengers" or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works. I do not claim any of the directly quoted lines from "The Avengers" as my own, they belong to Marvel and the writers._ _The cover art came from a google search with the original source being pinterest where it was credited to Anthony Genuardi._

_Author's Note: While I embrace_ **_constructive_ ** _criticism, remember this old saying if you choose to leave a review "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all"_

* * *

_Special thanks to all who reviewed Chapter One:_ **seraphenanox, JRBartonAvgrs, Evenstar129, Shvesta, Firali, thiswilldrivemecrazy, foreverinasmile, RoS13, zombie_socks, Isi7140,** _and_ **ExpressionsofMe**

_The hunt for the title of the song that inspires the chapter titles is on! Guess in a review and you'll get a shout out if you're right! So far we already have **JRBartonAvgrs** and **Isi7140** who nailed it out of the gate!_

_Continued thanks to my wonderful betas_ **Kylen** _and_ **JRBarton** _for their wonderful support and beta-powers throughout this story. Further thanks to_ **JRBarton** _for acting as my Italian translator :D_

_Also, thanks to_ **Rain In The Dark** _who translated the Russian parts of the movie for me so that it'd be accurate and correct._

  _Sorry if I missed anyone :D I forgot to tell you yesterday that this story, as usual, IS COMPLETE and will have DAILY updates ;)_

_On we go!_

* * *

_Last time in The Untold Stories:_

_Phil rubbed his face roughly, willing away the emotion that was trying to overwhelm him. He had to focus. He was no good to anyone, especially Clint, if he was an emotional wreck. He had a feeling, Clint was going to need all the help he could get by the end of this._

_That thought swiftly brought another. There was someone else that would be vital to saving Clint – to making sure saving him was a priority. Someone who would fight beside him just as fiercely to see their archer safely returned._

_He had to find Natasha._

* * *

_To be prepared for war is one of the most effective means of preserving peace._  
**_George Washington_ **

* * *

_April 11, 2012_  
12:25 p.m. Local Time (12:25 p.m. NYC)  
_SHIELD Helicarrier, somewhere over the Atlantic_

* * *

Phil sighed tiredly, rubbing his face as he moved down the stairs from Fury's office to the main area of the bridge. He stopped behind one of the agent's consoles and gripped the young man's shoulder.

"Did you find her?"

The agent – his nametag read Mills – nodded.

"She's in Russia, Moscow specifically."

"I knew that." Phil sighed. He made it a priority to know at least the country Natasha and Clint were in at all times. But he'd been in New Mexico when she took this assignment and wasn't sure of the specifics. "I was hoping for something a little more exact."

"Well, I pinged her cell…"

"And?" Phil questioned impatiently. He was too tired for this. Too much time had already passed. It had been almost nine and a half hours since Clint was taken and between traveling to the field office in Albuquerque, traveling then to the Helicarrier, helping Fury manage sending out the SHIELD-wide alert to all the bases, and then going into a meeting with Fury, Hill and the Council – which had lasted far too long in his opinion – he hadn't had a spare moment to even pull Natasha's mission file, much less call her.

So he'd assigned the job to Mills in passing as he headed into that meeting. Now, more than an hour later, Director Fury had dismissed him and Hill with marching orders to start bringing in Avengers while he stayed behind and continued to battle with the Council. Before he carried out those orders, though, Phil had unanimously decided that tracking down Natasha, the only real thing he could _do_ for Clint right now, was higher in priority.

"Well, _her_ phone was turned off…"

"Mills." Phil knew he was being impatient, and that his tone reflected that impatience. But he just didn't have the _time_ for this.

"So I pulled up her target's known associates and pinged _their_ phones…"

" _Where_ is she, Mills?"

Mills cleared his throat nervously and pointed at the screen.

"She's in a warehouse in Solensky Plaza. Third floor. Here's the number."

Phil nodded and fished out his cell phone and dialed. Then he waited while it rang, trying not think about how pissed she was going to be that he waited more than nine hours to let her know Clint was missing.

He was more than a little relieved that he was across the world from her right now.

* * *

_April 11, 2012_  
8:25 p.m. Local Time (12:25 a.m. NYC)  
_1-14 Solensky Plaza, Moscow, Russia_

* * *

Natasha touched her tongue to the corner of her mouth and tasted blood. It wasn't much, but she'd still make Luchkov's goon pay for it before this was over. She looked back at Luchkov when he spoke.

"Не так я ожидал провести этот вечер," _(_ _This is not how I expected to spend this evening)_ he told her with such genuine regret that she had to hold back an eye roll. He thought he was being cute, clever even. More than likely believed that, had their evening not taken this turn, what he "expected" would have actually happened. Natasha knew better. She knew, even if no one else in this warehouse did, that they had ended up _exactly_ where _she_ had planned tonight.

"Я знаю, что вы ожидали." ( _I know what you expected.)_ She hoped her disgust showed in her gaze, even if she kept her expression neutral. "Так лучше. Поверьте." _(_ _Believe me, this is better.)_ Clint's penchant for sarcasm had really rubbed off on her. She watched the dig land and Luchkov's expression darkened, the playfulness leaving his tone.

"На кого ты работаешь? На Лермонтова, да?" _(_ _Who are you working for? Lermentov, yes?)_

Natasha let her eyes widen in what would appear to be real fear as Luchkov's goon leaned her chair back over the gaping hole behind her. The scared little girl act was so easy when it was a man you were trying to fool. The ploy worked, because Luchkov's voice gained arrogance.

"Он всё ещё думает, что мы через него должны толкнуть наш товар?" _(Does he think we have to go through him to move our cargo?)_

Well, that answered _that_ question. She'd been trying to figure out who was working with Luchkov ever since she'd realized there was more to the story than just Solohob.

God, this was even easier than she'd expected it to be.

She feigned confusion and kept pushing for more.

"Я думала, генерал Сохолоб отвечает за экспорт." _(_ _I thought General Solohob was responsible for the export.)_

She watched his scoff. She had him.

"Сохолоб? Курьер. Он прикрытие. Твоя устаревшая информация подводит тебя. Знаменитая Чёрная Вдова… оказалось, просто ещё одно красивое личико." _(_ _Solohob? He's a courier. He's a cover. Your outdated information fails you. The famous Black Widow…nothing but another pretty face.)_

She smirked as more pieces to Luchkov's operation fell into place.

"Вы правда думаете, что я красивая?" _(_ _You really think I'm pretty?)_ She couldn't help it. The sarcastic quip was rolling off her tongue in a purr before she could stop it. Clint would have been proud.

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, however, the goon grabbed her jaw and forced it open. She watched Luchkov reach for a tool off the table behind him, recognizing it immediately from her _own_ schooling on torture techniques.

Why did they always go for the teeth? There were so many more effective torture methods. All pulling teeth did was make the victim less inclined to put their jaw through the stress of talking. It was good for inflicting pain, though. But pain had stopped scaring her when she was just a child so it took a bit of effort to force fear into her expression.

She'd gotten too playful, she had to reel them back in and make them think she could be intimidated. There was still more she needed to know.

"Скажи Лермонтову, что он нам не нужен, чтобы толкнуть танки," ( _Tell Lermentov we don't need him to sell the tank,)_ he went on. "Скажи ему, он выбыл. Так… You may have to write it down." _(_ _Tell him he's out. Well…)_

Jesus, _really_? It wasn't like he was spouting some diabolical master plan that she'd have hard time remembering. The man wasn't worth the effort this was taking – Lermentov and Solohob, though? She still needed more on them. She was plotting how to turn the conversation back in that direction when the sudden ringing of a cell phone cut through the momentary silence that had come over them.

For a moment nobody moved. Nobody appeared to know whose phone was ringing. Then one of Luchkov's thugs seemed to realize it was _his._ He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and answered it.

He blinked in shock at whatever response he got.

"Это её." _(_ _It's for her.)_

Natasha's heart rate picked up. There were very few reasons for SHIELD to call an agent while they were on the job. None of them were good. She watched Luchkov take the phone and speak into it. Whatever reply he got silenced him _very_ effectively and had him swallowing and handing her the phone.

She balanced it between her cheek and shoulder and waited.

" _We need you to come in."_ Phil's demanding, but also incredibly vague order sent a shot of annoyance through her.

"Are you kidding? I'm working."

" _This takes precedence."_

Natasha felt something tighten in her gut, but she pushed it away. She'd been working to get to Luchkov for weeks. She wasn't going to throw away her progress because the powers that be had decided to rearrange their priorities – _again._ If it was _that_ important, she happened to know another highly effective SHIELD agent that would _love_ to be reassigned from his current detail.

"I'm in the middle of an interrogation, and this moron is giving me everything."

Luchkov looked suddenly affronted.

"I not…give everything," he defended lamely.

Natasha tossed him a look. Jesus, this job was practically a vacation.

"Look, you can't pull me out of this right now."

She was so close; she'd be done in a few hours anyway. She'd have what she needed to find who was _really_ running the whole operation and take him out.

" _Natasha…"_ something in his voice gave her pause and sucked the air out of her lungs. She knew that tone. She'd heard it before. That tone meant… _"Barton's been compromised."_

For one horrifying moment, her entire world stopped spinning. Luchkov and his goons disappeared, Phil's voice faded away, her heart might have even stopped beating…nothing in the world mattered but those three words.

_Barton's been compromised._

Then everything started moving again, faster than it had before. Her heart pounded, her focus narrowed. Suddenly Luchkov didn't matter anymore, whoever was running the transport operation didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was Clint.

"Let me put you on hold."

* * *

She walked away from where she'd left Luchkov hanging over the pit and picked up the cell and her heels.

"Where's Barton now?" Somehow not saying his first name made it easier to take. His first name was personal; it would make it _feel_ personal.

" _We don't know."_

Natasha swallowed down the rush of helplessness that threatened to overwhelm her at that news.

"But he's alive?" She didn't even want to think about what she would do if the answer to that was no.

" _We think so."_

She forced herself to breath, to embrace that thread of hope and move forward.

" _We'll brief you on everything when you get back,"_ Phil assured her. _"But first, we need you to talk to the big guy."_

Natasha bit back a flash of anger. He was sending her out? _Now?_

"Coulson, you know that Stark trusts me about as far as he can throw me." She hoped her use of his last name let him know how annoyed she was. As far as she was concerned, she only had one mission now: finding Clint and bringing him home.

" _Oh, I've got Stark. You get the_ _ **big**_ _guy."_

She stopped, momentarily shocked.

"Мой Бог." _(My God)_ She reached up and rubbed her eyes wearily. "There are more subtle ways to keep me from looking for him myself. You don't have to send me to India."

" _I think we both know sending you to India is one of the_ _ **only**_ _ways to stop you."_

Natasha frowned.

"Exactly how long has Clint been missing?" she demanded abruptly. There had to be a reason Phil was keeping her busy. Because she wasn't stupid enough to believe _she_ was the only one or even the best one to go talk to Banner.

His hesitation on the line just confirmed it as far as she was concerned.

" _Over nine hours."_

"Jesus, Phil!" she snapped, pressing her palm against her forehead. "Why the hell didn't you call me sooner? I could have been there _hours_ ago! I could have been _looking_ for him!"

Phil sighed over the line.

" _Natasha, you wouldn't even know where to look. If you did, I'd be right there with you. I'm doing everything I can from here."_ For the first time, she heard the desperation and barely controlled fear in his voice. _"I need you to do your job. I need someone I can trust to bring Banner in. If anyone can convince him, it'll be you."_

Natasha sighed. Maybe that was true. She made her living by convincing people to do what she wanted them to do. And when it came down to it, the more people they had in their corner to try and find Clint, the better.

He was right. She needed to do her job.

"Fine. I'll go to India."

" _Thank you."_ He paused and then came back, quieter. _"We'll find him."_

Natasha swallowed and looked up at the roof as if calling for help from the heavens and couldn't find the words to answer.

* * *

_April 11, 2012_  
_7:27 p.m. Local Time (1:27 p.m. NYC)  
_ _Palermo, Italy_

* * *

Clint pulled his hand back from the buzzer and rolled his neck, hoping the action would loosen the tension there and ease the headache that he couldn't seem to shake. It had started the moment Loki had touched him with the spear, a pressure in his head, constant and unyielding. It was worse when the god was nearby, which, thankfully, he wasn't at the moment. He was back with the truck, waiting for Clint to call him in.

As painful as it was turning out to be to have Loki in his head, not having to carry any sort of transmitter to communicate with the god was going to be useful, especially here.

Luca Bertolini didn't take too well to _anything_ electronic being brought into his midst, unless he was the one bringing it. He was paranoid that way and for good reason. After all, being one of the heads of the Bertolini Crime Syndicate came with a certain need for paranoia. You never knew if the next guy walking into the room was there to kill you or kiss your feet.

Last time Clint had met Bertolini, he'd been the former.

It _had_ been more than four years ago, though, and Clint hadn't actually ended up killing him, so he hoped Bertolini wasn't holding a grudge.

Clint glanced up at the security camera nestled carefully in the shadows above and to his right.

They were sure taking their time answering the door, but then, if Bertolini recognized him they might be making sure their weapons were loaded.

Finally, the door opened and Clint was staring down the barrel of a mean looking Beretta.

He looked over the gun to the man wielding it.

Nicoló Bertolini – Luca's nephew and a second-rate enforcer for the syndicate.

"Immagino che ti ricordi di me?" _(I take it you remember me?)_ Clint asked lowly.

Nicoló nodded, mouth twisting into a sneer.

"Mi ricordo il rumore delle tue ossa che si rompevano sotto i miei pugni," _(I remember your bones breaking beneath my fists),_ Nicoló replied angrily.

Clint found the corner of his mouth turning up in a dark smirk.

"Oh, non me la ricordo proprio così la cosa Nico." _(Oh, that's not quite how I remember it, Nico.)_ The enforcer scowled at the nickname and Clint smirked wider. "E se ci pensi bene anche tu... ricorderai anche," _(And I think that if you're honest with yourself…you'll remember,)_ Clint let his smirk fall away, leaving behind nothing but the face of Hawkeye, "che se non punti quella pistola da un'altra parte, sono capace di convincerti io a farlo." _(that if you don't get that gun out of my face, I will take it from you.)_

Nicoló snarled and stepped forward, pressing the barrel of his Beretta to Clint's forehead.

Clint blinked calmly, gave Nicoló half a breath to bask in his bravado, then he moved.

He grabbed the top slide of the gun with his left hand and reached around the back with his right. He pressed the slide release at the same time he forced the slide forward, disengaging it from the rest of the gun. He pulled it free and then threw it back, rocketing it straight into Nicoló's nose. Then he twisted the gun from the enforcer's grip with his left hand, grabbed Nicoló's left thumb and twisted out with the other, and slammed his boot into his thigh, right above his knee.

They both heard something in his knee snap almost in harmony with his thumb dislocating and wrist breaking.

Nicoló screamed even as he fell, collapsing to one knee.

Clint stepped forward, driving his knee up into Nicoló's chin even as he spun the gun in his hand and brought the butt cracking down against the other man's temple.

Nicoló's scream was abruptly silenced as he collapsed in a boneless heap.

Clint tossed the gun down as he stepped over the fallen body and swept his gaze over the semi-circle of automatic rifles pointed at him.

"Dite al vostro capo che Tyler Kent vuole vederlo." _(Tell your boss that Tyler Kent is here to see him.)_ Clint let the corner of his mouth turn up again. "E che se non mi fa entrare, entro da solo. E vi posso assicurare che non sarà piacevole per nessuno." _(And that if he doesn't agree to meet, I'll just invite myself in. And believe me, none of you will enjoy what that looks like.)_

The group of men exchanged nervous glances and shifted where they stood. Obviously his reputation preceded him.

Finally, just when Clint thought he'd have to start making good on his threat, one of the older men nodded to the guy next to him. The younger man turned immediately and left the room.

Then they all just waited, Clint standing calmly just inside the doorway with a body behind him and an arch of armed men surrounding him.

He'd been in worse situations…in this very compound, in fact.

Without warning, the pressure in his head intensified and it took every shred of self-control Clint had to keep from reaching for his temples. Loki was getting impatient. He was digging around looking for a status report.

Clint clenched his jaw and did his best to ignore the intrusion, but it wasn't easy. The urge to mentally tell Loki to 'get the hell out' was getting stronger the longer the god poked around. Finally, the pressure eased, if only slightly, and Clint felt a little less like someone had stuck an ice pick in his eye and swirled it around.

Just in time too, because the door behind the group of men barring his way suddenly opened. The man that had scurried through it just a few moments ago, came back out and then a large form filled the doorway.

"Il Signor Bertolini la attende." _(Mr. Bertolini will see you now.)_

Like a magical switch had been flipped, the line before him parted, allowing him a clear path to the door. Clint moved forward, pausing when the man in the doorway blocked his way with a raised hand. Clint met his gaze and then stiffened slightly when he recognized him.

Marco Carrara. Luca Bertolini's top enforcer. They'd had more than one run in last time Clint was in Palermo.

"I trust you remember the expectations when meeting with Mr. Bertolini," Marco growled in richly accented English.

Clint raised his arms out from his sides to show he _did,_ in fact, remember. He endured the rough pat-down without complaint and could only shrug in dismissive indifference when Marco recovered the two knives sheathed at Clint's back.

"I better get those back."

The man straightened, meeting Clint's gaze, and didn't answer.

"You try to make a move against my boss and I'll finish what I started last time you were in Palermo."

Clint returned Marco's glare with matching intensity but didn't bother replying. Marco held his gaze for another long moment and then stepped aside, allowing Clint entrance into the room beyond the door. Clint fought against the instinct that warned him not to put his back to anyone in a hostile situation and headed through the doorway.

He found himself in a hallway and couldn't help but remember the last time he'd been in this hall – or, rather, the last time he'd been dragged down it.

Marco appeared next to him and urged Clint with a slight shove to his shoulder to keep moving.

The hall branched off here and there and had various doors peppered along it. But it was the furthest door they headed towards.

Marco pushed the door open and held it for Clint to enter. Clint stepped in, taking in the details of the large ornate office with his periphery vision and focusing the rest of his attention on the man sitting behind the large mahogany desk.

Luca Bertolini.

The last time Clint had seen this man, Natasha had been making a trade for Clint's life.

They'd parted, then, with a mutual agreement to remain indifferent strangers.

Bertolini looked incredibly intrigued to see Clint – or rather _Tyler_ – now.

"It was our agreement, that we would never meet again, Mr. Kent."

Clint came to stand in front of Bertolini's desk, hands loose at his sides. He met the mob lord's gaze evenly and cut to the chase.

"I need men. I'm willing to pay."

Bertolini's eyebrow arched.

"No talk of the past? No ruminations on old feuds?"

Clint cocked his own eyebrow in challenge.

"You wanna re-hash what's done? Go talk to a therapist. I'm on a timetable and I don't have patience for double talk or reminiscing. Do you have men for sale or not?"

On his left, Marco tensed, seeming to barely restrain himself from reacting violently to Clint's less-than-respectful answer. Clint honestly wished he'd try it. Loki was getting nosey again and Clint was starting to feel twitchy at the invasion.

Bertolini stood slowly from his desk and rounded it, coming to stand just in front of Clint.

"I am in the business of buying and selling such… _goods_ , as I'm sure you well remember."

Clint refused to step back when Bertolini stepped up into his space. Instead, he just lifted his chin and met the man's eyes unflinchingly.

Bertolini searched his gaze, seemingly unfazed by the icy blue that had taken the place of Clint's normal eye color. He smiled suddenly, a dark and chilling smile.

"Yes, you remember."

Clint did. He remembered every horrible, violent minute of it. Forcing those memories forward seemed to be Bertolini's goal because he stepped back without another word, casually moving to his desk again and retrieving a cigar from an ornate box on his desk.

"I have men. Though I am curious…"

Clint stayed silent and waited for the other shoe to drop.

"When we parted ways four years ago we agreed to become as strangers. I have done my part and forgotten you and your little red-haired savior. Yet here you are, darkening my door."

"I'm here to make a deal. If I remember, money's always been your bottom line."

Bertolini turned back to face him again.

"But never yours," the Italian replied with a level of respect Clint hadn't been expecting. From what he remembered, all denying payment for his combat services had gotten him four years ago was persuasion by brute force instead.

"You got your money then." Clint clenched his jaw when Loki delivered the equivalent of a mental jab. "You'll get your money now. My boss is very eager."

"Well then, Mr. Kent, shall we make a deal?"

Clint cut straight to the chase.

"I want a tac-team's worth of skilled combat mercs."

Bertolini arched an eyebrow.

"That will come at quite the price."

"My boss will pay. Whatever it is."

"And if that price is _you_ , conscripted into my ranks?"

Clint smirked, knowing full well that Loki wouldn't be fulfilling his end of any bargain made today.

"I'm sure he wouldn't even hesitate."

Bertolini chuckled.

"Then we will have a deal. A team in exchange for you and two hundred and fifty thousand euros."

Clint tilted his head mockingly.

"You can't have your cake and eat it too, Bertolini."

"Fine." Bertolini waved him off. "The money then, but five hundred thousand. I don't know if my ranks could handle you in them a second time anyway."

Clint nodded, mentally responding to the incessant prodding and pressure in his brain. Immediately he felt Loki's response and knew the god would be heading his way.

"You know," Clint commented idly as he felt Loki draw closer, "we never stopped watching you."

Bertolini tensed, eyes narrowing.

"And one day," Clint let his mouth curve into a dark smirk, "someone will be back for you. Might not be me, but it'll be someone."

"That was not the deal we made," Bertolini replied darkly.

Clint smirked wider.

"Deals are made to be broken."

A knock came at the door.

"That'll be your guy telling you my boss is at the door. He'll have your payment."

After receiving a nod from Bertolini, Marco moved to the door, exchanging quick words with the man there and then closing the door again. A few tense moments later, another knock came.

Marco opened the door to reveal Loki, who smiled silkily.

"I've been told we have a deal."

"Five hundred thousand euros and the men are yours." Bertolini had moved back behind his desk, puffing his cigar.

Loki moved to stand next to Clint. He nodded slightly, Loki nodded back.

Then there was a blur of motion. Clint dove at Marco, scaling his large, hulkish body like a monkey so he could reach his thick neck. He had him subdued in a choke hold before the other man even knew what was happening. Marco tried to shake him off, but Clint held firm.

Loki moved to the desk, extending the spear – which had appeared as a cane before now – to touch Bertolini's chest.

"You've been paid your fee and will willingly release the men I purchased into my possession," Loki instructed lowly. Bertolini nodded and Loki withdrew the spear. Even as Bertolini started to recover, Loki turned and moved to where Clint was holding tight to a struggling Marco. He winced when the larger man backpedaled sharply into the wall. Clint's back hit the plaster so hard it cracked.

"Any time now," Clint wheezed irritably.

Loki smirked and touched the spear to Marco's chest.

"You've seen your employer and I come to an arrangement. You saw currency exchanged. All ended well."

Clint felt Marco go still and cautiously released his hold, dropping to the floor. When the large man didn't suddenly lash out, Clint blew out a breath and moved around him.

He and Loki resumed their places in the middle of the room and waited. Marco and Bertolini regained their senses after only a moment. Bertolini blinked at Clint and Loki and then cleared his throat.

"Now that the payment's done, I'll have Marco collect your team. Marco?"

Marco nodded, though his expression was confused. He headed to a door off to the right and disappeared.

"It was a pleasure doing business with you, sir," Loki smiled widely at Bertolini, who nodded.

"And I with you."

Clint smirked. Having mind control on your side _did_ have its perks.

* * *

_April 12, 2012 (April 11, 2012 NYC)_  
5: 35 a.m. Local Time (8:05 p.m. NYC)  
_Kolkata, India_

* * *

Natasha rested her head back against the wall of the shack she was waiting in. The girl she'd paid should be back any minute, hopefully with Banner right behind her. The faster she got this over with, the faster she could be back on the Helicarrier helping in the search.

Phil had filled her in on a few of the details during the six and half hour flight from Moscow to Kolkata – she'd never been happier for a SHIELD jet's ability to shave an hour off normal flight time than she was tonight – and the more she knew, the more worried she got.

Mind control. That's what Phil had called it. She still couldn't quite believe it. It was like something out of a science fiction novel. She couldn't even imagine Clint like that, so not in control. Part of her hoped he had no idea what was going on, because if he _did…_ she didn't even want to think about it. Control was vital to Clint's sanity. He _needed_ it in some form to be able to function. It didn't always have to be something overt or obvious…it just had to be there.

The thought of him being stripped of that and forced to cater to the whims of another, it made her fists clench and her temper flair. She couldn't wait to get a shot at this _Loki_ guy.

A sudden sound at the door had her refocusing on the situation at hand. She heard the little girl run through the shack and then leave out the window. Heavier, slower footsteps followed and then stopped.

"Should have gotten paid up front, Banner."

That was her cue.

"You know, for a man who's supposed to be avoiding stress," she stepped out of from behind the curtain she'd been concealed behind, "you picked a hell of a place to settle."

She kept her gaze sharp on Banner's movements as he set his bag down, watching for any signs of anything green.

"Avoiding stress isn't the secret."

She forced a smirk and moved closer, trying to call forward the womanly wiles she was famous for. It was harder than it usually was.

"Then what is it? Yoga?"

Banner didn't look impressed or amused. He looked nervously at the window.

"And you brought me to the edge of the city. Smart. I, uh, assume the whole place is surrounded."

Natasha smiled and slid her scarf off her shoulders.

"Just you and me." It was a lie, but Banner bought it easily enough.

"And your actress buddy? She a spy too? They start that young?"

Natasha quirked her lips wryly.

"I did."

That caught Banner's attention and he met her gaze.

"Who are you?"

"Natasha Romanoff."

She could tell by the change in his eyes that he recognized the name.

"Are you here to kill me, Ms. Romanoff? 'Cause that's not going to work out for anyone."

Natasha understood how he'd think that, it _was_ what she was known for. But it wasn't _all_ she did, not since she'd come to SHIELD. Now she was more than the killer the Red Room had made her.

"No, no. Of course not. I'm here on behalf of SHIELD." And SHIELD tended not to kill people without a really good reason.

"SHIELD." The beginnings of anger lit his expression. "How'd they find me?"

"We never lost you, Doctor. We've kept our distance, even helped keep some other interested parties off your scent." She'd handled one of those 'interested parties' herself. Clint had handled another. Neither of them had escaped those missions unscathed.

"Why?" At least Banner seemed to understand the concept of goodwill.

"Nick Fury seems to trust you." That was probably a stretch. She was pretty sure there were _maybe_ two people Nick Fury really trusted…maybe only one. But that wasn't the point at the moment. "But now we need you to come in."

"What if I say no?"

She curved her lips seductively and set her tone to match.

"I'll persuade you." It came out sounding halfhearted and contrived.

God, she didn't even believe _herself_ right now. So much for staying focused.

She'd ask herself when Clint had become _that_ important to her – important enough to throw her completely off her game – but she knew. It had been years ago, in an abandoned hunting shack in the forests of Vietnam.

Banner – unaware of her current distraction – smiled a little sadly and shifted nervously.

"And what if the _other_ guy says no?"

"You've been more than a year without an incident." That, at least, was what his file said. "I don't think you want to break that streak."

He huffed a sad little laugh and nudged an old wooden cradle, listening to it creak as it rocked.

"Well, I don't every time get what I want."

Natasha thought of his file again, of a girl named Betty. She felt a wave of unexpected empathy, but forced it aside. There were bigger concerns at the moment than the doctor's lost love.

"Doctor, we're facing a potential global catastrophe."

Banner chuckled, tossing her a sideways look.

"Oh, those I actively try to avoid."

She could understand that given his condition, but she didn't have time to break it to him easy. She moved over to the table and pulled up a picture of the tesseract on her phone.

"This," she sat and looked up at him, "is the tesseract." She slid the phone across the table and watched him try to fight against his inherent curiosity. Scientists. They were so easy. "It has the potential energy to wipe out the planet."

_That_ definitely got his attention and had him coming closer, sliding a pair of glasses onto his face and reaching for the phone.

"What does Fury want me to do? Swallow it?"

Natasha wasn't sure if he was trying to be funny, so she just blew right past it.

"He wants you to find it. It's been taken. It emits a gamma signature that's too weak for us to trace. No one else knows gamma radiation like you do. If there was, that's where I'd be."

"So Fury isn't after the monster?" Now he sounded a little intrigued.

"Not that he's told me." But she knew that didn't mean much. Banner apparently knew it too because he gave her a patronizing look.

"And he tells you everything?"

Natasha gave up trying to play games. She was wasting time.

"Talk to Fury, he needs you on this."

"He needs me in a cage." Banner replied sharply.

Natasha frowned in confusion, wondering where that accusation had come from.

"No one's going to put you in a-"

"STOP LYING TO ME!" the growl in his voice was unmistakable and his hands slamming on the table had her standing from her seat and drawing her weapon in one swift movement. She didn't know what a bullet would do but she'd sure as hell find out if she had to.

He drew back, smiling slightly.

She narrowed her eyes.

"I'm sorry."

Was he…apologizing?

"That was mean." He smiled again, apologetically this time. "I just wanted to see what you'd do."

Natasha kept her gun up and her eyes trained on him, searching for any signs of green. God dammit, she was off her game. Worry had made her jumpy and exhaustion had put her on edge. Banner had used that and managed to honest to God scare her.

That was _not_ an easy thing to do and for a moment she thought about shooting him just on principle. She reluctantly listened to the little voice inside her that warned her that would be really, _really_ stupid.

Banner seemed to realize he might have pushed her a little too far and tried to soften his tone.

"Why don't we do this the easy way where you don't use _that_ and the other guy doesn't make a mess? Okay?" When she still hesitated, he added a little awkwardly, "Natasha."

She ignored the use of her first name for now and firmly told herself to pull her shit together. She was the Black Widow for God's sake. And while a healthy fear of someone as powerful of Banner was a good thing, acting like a jumpy school girl in a haunted house was just unacceptable.

She lowered her gun and spoke to the men she knew would be closing in outside.

"Stand down. We're good here."

Banner looked a little vindicated as he gave her a stern look.

"Just you and me?"

She resisted the urge to ask him what the hell he expected and focused on reengaging the safety on her gun instead.

"Where do keep that anyway?"

Now it was her turn to shoot _him_ a look.

"The men outside will take you to our jet. I promise you no one will harm you."

"I haven't agreed to help."

"But you will." She met his gaze unflinchingly. "Because you're a good man." She headed towards the door.

"Where are you going?"

"I have to make a call."

* * *

_April 11, 2012_  
8:20 p.m. Local Time (8:20 p.m. NYC)  
_Stark Tower, New York, New York_

* * *

" _I got him."_

Phil breathed a sigh of relief as he attached a decoder to the keypad on the private entry door. He turned on the device and returned his attention to the phone conversation.

"Well done. I'm at Stark's now and Director Fury has gone to bring in Steve Rogers himself."

" _Does the Council know that? Did they even know I was going after Banner?"_

"They've agreed to activate the Avengers Initiative, specific timing of related events is beyond their purview as far as Fury is concerned."

" _So what now?"_ Natasha asked.

"Now we regroup. We prepare." He watched the decoder start working on the last three numbers of the entry code. "Fury's called up all the ground forces that were on base in New York. He's bringing them to the carrier in case this goes to a boots on the ground situation."

She was quiet for a moment.

" _Anything new?"_

He didn't have to ask what she was talking about, even if Clint hadn't been on the forefront of _his_ mind too, he could hear it in her voice.

"Nothing yet." Phil replied in the same tone. They were both worried. That wasn't a surprise.

He could almost hear her mentally pulling herself together and when she spoke again her voice was stronger.

" _Banner is on board. We'll be wheels up in less than 10 minutes. We should be on the carrier in just a couple hours."_

"As soon as I talk to Stark, I'm collecting Rogers and heading to the carrier myself. But even with the jet, it'll take me 12 hours to get there."

" _12 hours alone with Rogers. Try not to drown in drool. See you then."_

He ended the call and dialed a new number even as the last digit of the code came through. He typed it in and stepped through. A short exchange with Jarvis ended with his call being rejected.

"You want to do this the hard way, Stark? Fine," Phil muttered to himself as he accessed a program the SHIELD techs had installed on his phone back when Stark first came onto their radar. A few clicks and he was in the system and the elevator doors were opening.

He stepped inside and called Stark again.

He knew Jarvis would have no choice but to put him through this time and looked into the camera positioned on the elevator wall.

He heard the call connect and watched the screen on the elevator come to life with an image of the genius.

"Mr. Stark, we need to talk."

" _You have reached the Life Model Decoy of Tony Stark. Please leave a message."_

Phil barely kept a hold of his, admittedly shorter than normal, temper and forced his tone to remain calm.

"This is urgent."

" _Then leave it urgently."_

The elevator came to a stop and the door opened. Phil stepped out in time to hear Tony proclaim a security breach.

The billionaire looked at Pepper Potts accusingly.

"That's on you."

Pepper, for her part, stood, smiling warmly.

"Phil! Come in!"

Stark frowned in confusion.

"Phil?"

"I can't stay," Phil spoke to Pepper, hoping he conveyed the urgency of the situation with his tone. Stark had followed Pepper like a lost puppy and was trying to draw her attention back.

"His first name is Agent."

Pepper – practicing a skill Phil had mastered when dealing with Clint on his more sarcastic days – ignored Stark and beckoned him further into the room.

"Come on in, we're celebrating."

Stark came to stand next to her, granting Phil a wide, fake smile.

"Which is why he can't stay."

Phil ignored him and instead held out the laptop he'd brought with him.

"We need you to look this over, as soon as possible."

Stark stared at him.

"I don't like being handed things."

He hadn't even finished talking before Pepper was moving.

"That's fine because I love to be handed things." She exchanged the laptop for her champagne glass. "So let's trade."

She then exchanged the laptop for the glass in Stark's hand, making the whole thing look far too normal and practiced. He didn't know how she dealt with Stark on a daily basis, much less maintained a relationship with him.

Stark still put up a token protest, even though Phil could already see the genius's curiosity was piqued.

"Official consulting hours are between eight and five every other Thursday."

"This isn't a consultation." But he needn't have bothered clarifying, Stark was already moving away, opening the laptop and turning it on.

"Is this about the Avengers?" Pepper asked with a note of excitement.

Phil looked at her, somehow not surprised that Stark had told her. He had enough experience with Clint and Natasha to know that there were rarely any real secrets between people in a true relationship. The thought of Clint had him sobering, and his countenance darkening. The look was enough to quell her excitement.

"Which I know nothing about," she stated with an overwhelming amount of sincerity.

Stark spoke from across the room.

"The Avengers Initiative was scrapped, I thought, and _I_ didn't even qualify."

"I didn't know that either," Pepper piped in.

"Yeah, apparently I'm volatile, self-obsessed, don't play well with others."

Pepper smirked.

" _That_ I did know."

Phil blinked and moved past the fast talk to focus on the matter at hand. Lives depended on them getting the ball rolling here, _Clint's_ life depended on it.

"This isn't about personality profiles anymore." He didn't add that the Avengers Initiative had never been scrapped, had only been tabled until the time was right. That time was now, and Stark was vital, no matter what the personality profile said.

"Whatever," Stark dismissed him. "Ms. Potts, got a moment?"

Pepper trotted over to Stark with a snarky, "Half a moment."

After that they spoke too lowly for him to hear. He used the time to check his watch. It had been more than 17 hours now, since Clint had gone missing. More than 17 hours without a word or a sign that he was even still alive. Phil swallowed thickly, forcing himself not to think that way. Clint was _alive_. He had to be. Phil would know if he wasn't, that was a fact he was damn sure of. Phil had made the mistake of not trusting that instinct once, when all evidence had said Clint was dead in Cairo. And that oversight had almost been the difference of Clint living and dying.

He wouldn't make that mistake again. Clint was alive until Phil knew in his heart it wasn't so and Clint's body was laying before him. Until both those things were true, Phil would not be convinced otherwise.

He looked at his watch again.

He turned his attention back to Stark and Pepper in time to see them kiss, which had him averting his gaze. He suddenly felt like he was intruding on a private moment, not unlike when Clint and Natasha got that 'I'm all in' look in their eyes and started speaking in Russian.

A moment later Pepper was heading towards him.

"So, any chance you're driving by LaGuardia?"

He wasn't.

"I can drop you off." Because Pepper was a friend. _That_ had happened out of nowhere 18 months ago when she'd stumbled upon him out with the woman he was seeing at the time. And Pepper, being Pepper, just wasn't someone you could turn away.

"Fantastic!" she walked with him towards the elevator. "Oooh, I want to hear about the ah- cellist! Is that still a thing?"

Phil couldn't help but smile as he thought of Celine. He was suddenly very grateful for the distraction.

"She moved back to Portland."

Because as far as Pepper knew – as far as she'd learned during that impromptu lunch – that's where Celine was from. She didn't know anything about Paris or that Celine ran the SHIELD office there. Because friend or not, Pepper was a civilian and she could only ever know the cover story. So she knew Celine as a cellist from Portland who traveled with her symphony…and who had decided after a time that coming second to Clint just wasn't how she wanted to live.

Clint may have been more upset about that than Phil had been, but maybe that was because Phil still had hope.

"What?" Pepper exclaimed. "Boo!"

Phil couldn't help but smile as they got onto the elevator. How Stark had won over this woman was a goddamned mystery.

* * *

_End of Chapter 2_

_Hope you enjoyed it! Drop me a line to let me know ;)_

_Until we meet back here tomorrow, have a preview_

* * *

_Clint couldn't hold back the slight flinch when Loki's hands locked around his temples once again, the pain in his head – never having faded – amplified exponentially._

_"I will **break** you and leave you shattered on the ground. You've just given me the weapon."_

_Then the ground dropped out beneath him._


	3. I Been Through The Ringer

_Disclaimer: I do not own "The Avengers" or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works. I do not claim any of the directly quoted lines from "The Avengers" as my own, they belong to Marvel and the writers._ _The cover art came from a google search with the original source being pinterest where it was credited to Anthony Genuardi._

 _Author's Note: While I embrace_ **_constructive_ ** _criticism, remember this old saying if you choose to leave a review "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all"_

* * *

 _Special thanks to all who commented yesterday:_ **Kali588, Firali, beargirl1393, im-great-at-boats, RoS13, Isi7140, BeccaTyler, Bamber32,** _and_ **RandominatorOwl**

 _Continued thanks to my wonderful betas_ **Kylen** _and_ **JRBarton** _for **being** such awesome human beings and such amazing betas._

 

 _btw to_ **RandominatorOwl** _you asked about_   **Snapshots** _and if I'd do a new one today...the answer is yes, I plan to. Not sure WHEN today it'll get done, but I will._

_**Trigger warning.** Mental abuse most definitely and references to child abuse._

And so we continue...

* * *

_Last time in The Untold Stories:_

_"What?" Pepper exclaimed. "Boo!"_

_Phil couldn't help but smile as they got onto the elevator. How Stark had won over this woman was a goddamned mystery._

* * *

_Know thy self, know thy enemy. A thousand battles, a thousand victories._  
**_Sun Tzu_ **

* * *

_April 12, 2012_  
4:45 p.m. Local Time (7:15 a.m. NYC)  
_SHIELD Quinjet, somewhere over the Indian Ocean_

* * *

"We're about forty minutes out from home base, sir."

After hearing the pilot's announcement, Phil slid his headset off and stood, moving over to Captain Rogers, who was watching a video of the Hulk with a look of extreme concentration.

"So, this Doctor Banner was trying to replicate the serum they used on me?" Rogers asked.

Phil nodded, welcoming the distraction of conversation. Another 10 and a half hours gone and nothing on Clint, not one damn thing. He'd gotten on a jet as quickly as humanly possible after talking to Stark. Rogers had already been waiting for him and they'd taken off immediately.

The pilots had pushed the jet to its limits, managing to make record time from New York to the Indian Ocean. Rogers had slept on the flight. Phil had tried, but had only managed to doze. Worry did that. Even his thrill at being in the same space as Captain Rogers hadn't been able to dampen the fear that kept bubbling up – at least it hadn't helped while the soldier was sleeping. Now that he was awake and open to conversation, he was a welcome distraction.

"A lot of people were. You were the world's first superhero," Phil explained. "Banner thought gamma radiation might hold the key to unlocking Erskine's original formula."

The Captain smirked wryly.

"Didn't really go his way, did it?"

Phil supposed that depended on your point of view. Banner had achieved _something_ , just not exactly what he'd set out to do.

"Not so much," he replied. "When he's not that thing, though, guy's like a Stephen Hawking."

Rogers looked at him blankly, blinking in confusion. Phil felt a shot of annoyance with himself. Rogers had spent the last 70 years frozen under ice. The name Stephen Hawking probably meant as much to him as Johnny Depp or AC/DC.

"He's like a…" he paused, searching for a way to accurately describe what most already knew about Stephen Hawking, "smart person," he finished lamely.

Phil barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes at his own awkwardness. He wasn't usually this tongue-tied. But then, he'd never been in the presence of his childhood hero before. At least not while he was conscious.

He looked at the Captain, hardly believing he was standing in the same space, breathing the same air as the man – no, _legend_. Memories from his childhood of reading about the heroic Captain America brought a lifetime's worth of hero-worship bubbling to the surface. Phil didn't fight it. It was a relief to have something positive to focus on. He just wished he had his trading cards on him.

"I gotta say, it's an honor to meet you officially," he started strong. "I sort of met you, I mean, I watched you while you were sleeping." _Oh God,_ he sounded like an obsessed stalker. "I _mean_ , I was present while you were unconscious from the ice."

Rogers moved away from him, looking a little uncomfortable. Phil honestly couldn't blame him. He was making _himself_ uncomfortable. He blew out a breath, trying to get his thoughts back in order.

"You know it's really – it's just a…" Phil forced himself to just _spit it out_ , "just a huge honor to have you on board. It's…"

"Well, I just hope I'm the man for the job," Rogers mercifully interrupted him.

Phil took another breath, suddenly grateful Clint wasn't there to see him so bumbling and ridiculous. His agent would have teased him for it without restraint until the end of time.

The wayward thought had him sobering, his stomach knotting painfully as he remembered with sudden clarity _why_ Clint was not here to make fun of him. As quickly as if he'd been doused with a bucket of cold water, Phil lost the giddy excitement of meeting his childhood hero.

"Oh you are, absolutely," he assured. "We made some modifications to the uniform." Phil hesitated then added a little shyly, "I had a little design input." Maybe he hadn't lost _all_ of his excitement.

"The uniform?" Rogers cocked his head curiously. "Aren't the stars and stripes a little…old-fashioned?"

Phil met the Captain's crystal blue gaze seriously.

"Everything that's happening, the things that are about to come to light, people just might need a little old-fashioned."

They just might need someone they could believe in again.

* * *

 _April 12, 2012_  
_1:15 p.m. Local Time (7:15 a.m. NYC)  
_ _Loki's lair, somewhere in Europe_

* * *

"Take it to Selvig," Clint commanded, nodding in the direction of Selvig's work station. The two men before him, carrying a large crate between them, moved to follow his order without hesitation. Clint didn't watch them go, instead scanned the large open room. People often wondered how Clint could always see the big picture. How no moving piece escaped his keen eye.

The simple truth was, he just paid attention – and not just to the big things. He saw everything, big and small, obvious and innocuous. It had been called a gift more than once throughout his life. When he was a kid, even a teen, he hadn't realized that most people didn't see the world like he did. He hadn't known that being able to scan room and remember everything in it – right down to the amount of loose change spread out on the floor – was unusual. It wasn't until he'd met Phil that he'd come to realize his ability was a skill, a tool that could be used to his advantage.

And right now, it was what alerted him to Loki's current state of distraction.

The god was sitting off to the side, spear in hand. That, in and of itself, wasn't all that strange. Loki was never without that damn spear and he seemed to enjoy looking over the activity in the room with a sense of superiority. But what caught Clint's attention, and held it, was the glow of the spear. The goddamned thing only glowed when its magic was being used.

Judging by the blank, far off look on Loki's face, he had left the building. Mentally at least.

Clint cocked his head and drifted towards him, wondering where he'd gone and why.

Curiosity bubbled in Clint like a freshly tapped spring, urging his feet to take him closer without conscious thought. Why had Loki abandoned the current situation when his obsession with his current task was practically tangible?

Clint studied the would-be king, the man who had named himself Clint's master.

Clint had been called perceptive more than once in his life, another talent he'd been told was a gift. Another tool to him, though, one he used now without hesitation.

He was still studying him when Loki suddenly flinched, eyes going wide with something like fear and then darkening in anger.

Clint blinked in realization.

_Holy shit._

Loki wasn't calling the shots. Not really. He was answering to someone, someone even _he_ was afraid of.

Clint saw Loki's gaze sweep towards him and looked away, busying himself with a nearby crate. God or not, Clint had met men like Loki before – men who built their lives on arrogance and pride. Men who demanded subservience of all those deemed 'lesser', which for men like Loki was everyone. He didn't need to be all that perceptive to know that Loki wouldn't be pleased to catch him staring and studying. And Clint didn't have time to deal with the inevitable show of power that would follow.

"Agent Barton."

Clint clenched his jaw and blew out an annoyed breath. He toyed with the idea of pretending he hadn't heard the call. But a moment later he felt the still unfamiliar, but constant, pressure in his head intensify and the urge to turn and heed the call was suddenly overwhelming.

He met Loki's gaze across the open room, the various mercenaries and soldiers Clint had recruited fading away as if they didn't exist. Loki didn't have to speak for Clint to hear his next command.

_Come to me._

Clint clenched his jaw and after only managing a breath of hesitation, moved.

Loki remained sitting, chin lifted and eyes boring so intensely into Clint's he felts as if the god was seeing right through him.

When he reached Loki, the god just stared at him for a moment.

"Kneel." The command was delivered as calmly and casually as if he were saying 'good morning.'

Clint just blinked.

Was he serious? He wanted him to _kneel_? Kneel like a goddamned servant to a lord?

 _Oh right_ …Loki fancied himself a king…demanding that Clint kneel actually made annoying kind of sense. But before he could obey, his moment of hesitation was noticed.

"I said _, kneel_." Loki's voice had dropped dangerously, patience already worn thin, no doubt, by whatever mental trip he'd been on.

Something inside, something buried deep in his soul, rebelled, and had him aborting the action even as he started to obey.

Suspicion rose in Loki's gaze and Clint forced himself to drop to his knees. No matter how wrong it felt. And it felt _wrong_ , going submissive to a man like this, a man who took what he wanted by force and conscripted others to his cause whether they believed in it or not.

Though, in all honesty, 'submissive' just wasn't part of Clint's DNA…no matter who demanded it. So on his knees or not, Clint kept his eyes trained directly on Loki's. He was determined to show that while he would obey – for a reason he couldn't explain, the urge was just _there_ – he wasn't intimidated or cowed.

Loki's suspicion faded slightly and he cocked his head curiously, meeting Clint's gaze with that silky, sly grin he seemed to perpetually wear.

"Tell me what you saw."

Clint cocked an eyebrow in question.

"When you were studying me just now," Loki explained. "We're linked, you and I," Loki gestured at his own temple, "it was foolish to think simply averting your gaze would keep me from noticing your ruminations."

Clint blew out an annoyed breath and slid his gaze away from Loki's to hide his frustration. This was exactly what he'd been hoping to avoid. He had work to do. Selvig had been going on about all the materials he needed, and Clint had a feeling at least a few of them were going to be a trick to come by. He didn't need to be wasting time just so Loki could establish his superiority.

"Look at me!"

Clint snapped his gaze back to Loki's, unsurprised by the sudden heat and acid in the god's tone. Amongst Clint's many conclusions about the self-proclaimed king, 'short tempered' had been one of the easiest to draw.

" _Tell_ me what you saw," Loki demanded lowly.

Clint glanced at Loki's grip on the spear, watched his knuckles whiten around it. Then he moved his eyes back to Loki's. Caught a tension in his jaw that Loki was trying hard to hide.

He'd seen enough men spoiling for a fight to recognize it now.

"I don't think you really want me to do that," Clint replied carefully.

Loki's expression darkened.

"Would you have me force it from you?"

Clint rolled his neck slightly, feeling the constant pressure on his mind start to intensify. He resisted the urge to rub his temples and held Loki's gaze unflinchingly. The Asgardian was very obviously pissed off by whatever had happened during his mind-trip and was looking for someone to take it out on. Clint knew he needed to play along or that someone would be _him_. And he had a feeling "forcing it from him" wasn't something he wanted to experience.

He held Loki's gaze with his own and answered.

"Fear."

Loki looked momentarily taken aback, but then covered it swiftly with a scoff.

"I fear _nothing_ and _no one_."

Clint shrugged a shoulder. Whatever Loki needed to tell himself, Clint didn't give a shit.

"You think I _fear_ something? I am as a god in this realm. Tell me what it is you think _I_ have to fear here."

Clint hesitated, shifting his eyes away as he thought. _That_ was a trap of a question if he'd ever heard one.

The pressure on his mind intensified sharply and without warning, drawing a wince before he could stop it and sending words tumbling out of his mouth without his permission.

"Whoever's really calling the shots. You fear whoever _sent_ you here in the first place."

The blow to his mouth – a sharp back hand that sent his world tilting off balance and forced him to throw out his left hand to stop himself from hitting the ground – caught him by surprise. He wiped at the fresh blood leaking from the corner of his mouth with his finger and righted himself, raising his gaze defiantly back to Loki. The bastard didn't realize that Clint had been taking beatings since he was six years old. Violence had stopped inspiring fear in him a long, _long_ time ago.

* * *

Loki reigned in his temper and glared down at the man before him as he watched him push himself back up from the ground. Loki was prepared to let it go there, the blood he could see on the man's fingers seemed punishment enough for his words. To dare think that Loki feared anyone, to speak the words aloud. It had been unacceptable from someone like Barton, someone so far beneath him, and he'd reacted instinctively.

He was sure, now, that Barton would know his place.

But as the agent turned back to him, there was fiery defiance in his gaze.

Loki's temper flared again and he struck out, catching Barton's chin in his hand and forcing the man's head back so he could meet his gaze more fully.

"You would dare speak these words to me? To your _king_?" Loki spat.

Barton stared silently at him, but his eyebrow quirked sarcastically. Loki didn't need to use their mental connection to know what the agent was saying. Loki understood the expression easily.

_You asked._

Loki grudgingly admitted, only to himself, that he _had_ , in fact, asked.

"How could you possibly know this?" he demanded. When Barton didn't answer immediately, Loki tightened his hand on his captive's jaw. " _HOW?_ "

"I see things," the agent explained simply. "I see things no one else sees."

The answer was so simple; Loki couldn't find a way to argue it. He loosened his grip on Barton's jaw and then released him completely.

"You _see_ things…" Loki glared down at him as he watched the agent flex his jaw, but the red marks from Loki's fingers were already fading.

Barton sat back on his heels and looked up to meet his gaze again.

Instead of answering, the agent lifted and dropped his shoulders in such a way that clearly communicated both his annoyance with this conversation and his lack of desire to explain further.

Loki's arched an eyebrow, feeling his temper start to rise again at the blatant disrespect. None of the others under his spell showed such defiance. None of the others dared resist his compulsion. Something with this man, with Barton, was different. Whether it was a misstep with the magic, or something deeper, something within Barton himself, causing the issue remained to be seen.

Loki did not have time to let the answer reveal itself, so instead he sought it out.

He focused his gaze heavily on Barton's, diving with his own mind into Barton's, searching, sifting, digging for the source of this unexpected defiance.

He was unaffected by the lines of pain that formed around Barton's eye as he continued his plundering search. He could see it clearly now, the battle waging within this man. A brawl between the magic and his own stubborn will. Even more troubling still, it seemed Barton was winning.

Loki's temper sparked. He would not be defied. Not by one so low as this man. He would not have his plans disrupted by a mere, inconsequential _human_. And he would make Barton regret his defiance in the first place.

* * *

Loki's gaze on his was like molten lead.

It goddamned _hurt_ , hurt like someone was closing his head in a car door repeatedly, but Clint refused to give into the urge to reach for his head. He refused to break his gaze from Loki's.

He wouldn't show the pain. He wouldn't show himself to be weak.

Abruptly, the pressure lessened and Loki cocked his head, anger simmering in his gaze.

"Do you even realize the battle waging within you?" the god demanded sharply.

Clint narrowed his gaze. Battle? What battle?

Loki stepped closer, eyeing Clint like he was some science experiment gone inexplicably wrong.

"You battle, even now, against my hold on you. Do you feel it? The resistance?" Loki's tone made him wary. His voice was almost mocking.

Clint could only stare at him. Was that what he was feeling? Was that the source of that insufferable itch in his mind that he couldn't seem to shake? Was that why he found himself continually hesitating in the face of Loki's commands? Why he hadn't put a bullet in Fury's head when the order in his mind had clearly been to _kill_ him?

Was he fighting? Without even realizing it…

Loki's hand suddenly resting against his temple startled him, but he held back a flinch just barely. Loki's gaze was deeply angry now and a little vicious.

"You have managed to retain some sort of foothold in your mind. And _that_ , I cannot have."

Loki's hand shifted on his temple, something like a caress, but at the same time _not_. Either way, Clint shied away from it. Loki rested the spear on top of the crate next to them and smiled that snake-charmer smile again.

Clint hated that smile.

"Shall we see if we can knock that foot out from under you?"

Before Clint could do anything more than widen his eyes in realization of what was coming, Loki's other hand pressed against his other temple.

Then Clint was falling.

* * *

Clint opened his eyes.

He was on his back, staring at an open sky – stars spread out in the inky blackness of night. It was an odd sight, but mostly because he could see the top edges of walls on either side of him. Where had the roof gone?

"Get up."

He flinched in surprise, twisting up to a defensive stance on his hands and one knee. He searched for the source of the voice and found it standing behind him.

Loki.

Clint frowned in confusion. They weren't in the underground bunker anymore. That was obvious by the long hallway they were standing in and the endless row of prison cell doors on either side of them.

"So this is what you've created for yourself." Loki ran his hand along one of the iron bars that made up the cell door. "A prison."

"What?" Clint questioned blankly as he used his periphery to get a more accurate lay of the land. The room beyond the cell doors was inky black, so dark he couldn't make out any shapes or forms beyond the doors themselves.

Loki turned to look at him, smiling darkly.

"This is your mind, Agent Barton. This," he motioned at the hallway and the cells, "is your creation."

Clint blinked. What the f…

"What?" he asked again.

Loki stepped closer to him and Clint stood, squaring his shoulders.

"We're in your mind, you and I." At Clint's disbelieving look, Loki went on, "Only metaphysically of course. In reality, we are still exactly as you remember in the bunker."

Clint shook his head. What the _fuck_?

"How?"

"As I've told you before, we are linked, as I am with all whom I've brought to my cause under the power of the scepter."

Clint couldn't help it, he took his eyes off Loki and looked around fully.

"So this is…" he trailed off doubtfully.

"A product of your own creation." Loki looked around now too. "A prison, it seems." He fixed a mocking gaze back on Clint. "What do you think that says about you, Agent Barton?"

Clint could think of a _lot_ of things that said about him, none of which he was inclined to share.

"Why are we here?" he asked instead. "Whatever it is you want to know; why didn't you just take it? We both know you can. Why bring me here?"

Loki stepped closer again, moving into Clint's space with a menacing, vicious smile.

"I would know what gives you this strength to resist me. Despite what you think, I cannot find that on my own. So you will _show me_." With that his hands locked around Clint's temples again, sending a shockwave of pain through every fiber of his being. He couldn't help but close his eye and clench his jaw to combat it.

But then, just as soon as it started, it ended.

Clint opened his eyes, blinking into the bright sun and breathing hard like he'd just run wind-sprints. He stared in shock at the structure before him.

The rickety porch steps and splintered railing. The peeling white paint. The torn screen on the outer door. The worn, cracked wooden plaque nailed to the wall, with faded black letters.

_Waverly Home for Boys_

Clint felt himself go pale, suddenly feeling the unevenness of the gravel beneath his feet. How many times had he cut up his hands and knees on this gravel? How many times had he slipped on it and fell as he tried to run away?

"What is this place?" came Loki's voice from his side.

Clint wasn't surprised the god was with him, he seemed determined to discover _something_ about Clint with this little mind-trip. He _was_ surprised they'd ended up _here_ , of all places.

"An orphanage," he explained without meaning to. It was then that he noticed the throbbing of his head, the pounding pressure that didn't let up. Loki was compelling him to speak, to tell the truth.

The goddamned bastard. It wasn't bad enough that he was dragging Clint down memory lane, he was going to force him to reveal all the dark truths that lay hidden on the path.

"You lived here?" Loki questioned.

He was saved from answering when the screen door suddenly banged open. They both watched a young boy with buzzed-short, sun-kissed, yellow-blonde hair come tearing out at a full run. The boy wore a faded, ill-fitting, blue Captain America t-shirt, frayed shorts, and no shoes. Even so, he leapt from the porch athletically, landing in the gravel on bare feet that didn't seem fazed.

Then he was running.

Loki was watching the boy. Clint was watching the door.

He remembered this day.

When Phillip Jacobs came bursting through the door a moment later, Clint felt an old, long since forgotten fissure of fear slice through him. But just as quickly he stamped it out. He didn't fear this man. Not anymore. Hadn't for a long time.

"Get back here, you little shit!" Jacobs screamed.

This was the day that changed everything. The day that ended with a decision that he'd had _enough_. That he was done. That he was going to change things.

Jacobs took off after the child in a sprint, his long legs eating up the distance between them. But the boy was fast, he was closing in on the barn door, was seconds away from being inside and scrambling up to the safety of the rafters.

Clint didn't have to watch to know the exact moment the boy's foot found a stray nail on the ground. His own foot throbbed painfully at the memory. He didn't need to hear the shout of pain or the thud of a small body hitting the ground. His shoulder ached with an echo of the impact.

He didn't need to see the ensuing battle of flailing limbs to know that the 10-year-old boy fought like a wildcat against Jacobs, fought so hard he bruised the older man's face with his fists, broke the flesh of his arms and hands with his teeth, and bruised his groin with his foot.

He didn't need to hear the shouting to know the little boy was losing. Didn't need to hear the angry retorts to know that even so, he _kept fighting_.

"I see."

He felt Loki's gaze on him, but Clint was still looking at the screen door. Was watching another boy, no older than sixteen, standing behind the torn screen. Buzzed short dark hair, dark eyes, olive skin, the boy just stood there, watching the wild, vicious battle raging across the gravel yard. He didn't try to stop it. Didn't try to help. Just stood. Just _watched_.

Barney.

"I _see._ " Loki's smug voice reached him again. Clint watched his brother grip the edge of the door frame. But he still didn't move. He tensed suddenly, though, and Clint knew what was coming next.

He heard gravel shifting, heard the tell-tale sound of someone being dragged.

He finally tore his eyes away from his brother to watch Jacobs get fed up with the 10-year-old Clint for not keeping his feet under him. He jerked him up by the bicep, nearly pulling his arm out of alignment, and Clint felt his shoulder burn at the memory.

He marched Clint's younger self back towards the house, and the entire time he fought. He pulled against Jacobs' iron grip, kicked at his legs, but couldn't break free.

He'd had a hand-shaped bruise on his arm for _weeks_ after this day.

They reached the porch and Jacobs flung the boy towards the stairs. He barely got his hands out to break the impact and keep his face from eating wood.

"You, stop your goddamned gawking and get the fucking belt." Jacobs bellowed at Barney. The teen disappeared from the door without comment and Jacobs turned his attention back to the boy on the stairs. "Get in the house!"

Clint recognized the look in the blue-gray eyes that shifted to glare at Jacobs over the 10-year-old boy's shoulder. He'd worn that look more times than he could count over the years.

Defiance.

Jacobs lunged forward, cuffed the boy sharply on the back of the head and then grabbed a fistful of his t-shirt, dragging him up the steps and into the house. The screen door slammed shut behind them and less than a minute later they could hear the sound of leather snapping against flesh.

Clint's back burned. The wounds from this day had long since turned to scars and the pain had faded to nothing but a memory. But it was a reminder he'd never be rid of, a mark Jacobs had left that he'd never be able to shake.

Loki's heavy gaze landed on him again and Clint heard himself talking before he had a chance to resist.

"That day changed everything. I ran away that night."

"So this is where it began," Loki frowned slowly. "This is where your strength found its feet."

Clint shook his head. Maybe some would see it that way. Would think that this day he'd finally found the strength to stand up for himself and run as far and as fast as he could from this little slice of hell.

But Clint didn't see it that way. He hadn't run because he was strong. He'd run because he was tired of Jacobs. He was tired of pain. He was tired of fear. He'd run because he too scared to stay. He'd run because Jacobs had beaten him so badly he could barely walk, had split the skin of his back so horribly that for the first time in a _long_ time, Barney had seemed to care again. He had helped him pack his meager belongings and had run with him.

That wasn't strength. Clint didn't know what it _was_ , but it wasn't strength. Not to him.

But Loki seemed to be running this show and he seemed satisfied with his discovery.

"A lifetime of fighting behind you," Loki ruminated casually, "has made my purpose here more difficult."

Clint slowly turned his head to meet Loki's gaze.

"I thought it would be a simple matter of finding your source of strength and destroying it. But _you_ …you seem to be unique." Loki tilted his head as if he found Clint fascinating. Then he snapped his fingers and the house was gone, they were back in the hallway with the endless row of cells.

Clint frowned in confusion when the door next to them slammed suddenly closed.

He didn't remember it being _open_.

"You, Agent Barton, do not find your strength from a source, from any moment in time…it, instead, is part of you. It just… _is._ "

Clint was still staring at the barred door next to them in confusion, but now dragged his gaze back to Loki's.

"And so, I regret to inform you, that it is _you_ I will have to destroy." Loki stepped towards him and Clint backed away. Loki pursued him until his back slammed into a cell door that seemed to have appeared from nowhere. "Now, Agent Barton," Loki's hands locked around his head once more, his voice dropping to a low menacing growl, " _show me what you fear."_

Then there was nothing but pulsing, pounding _pain_.

"The more you resist, the worse it will feel!" Loki's angry voice echoed through his head like it had been shouted through a megaphone.

Clint didn't realize he'd _been_ resisting. But even now, he sensed it within himself. His own hands had risen to grip Loki's wrists. He'd gone to his knees at some point, Loki towering over him. But Clint was fighting, he could feel it now.

"Stop fighting!"

But he would always fight. It was what he'd promised Phil. What he'd promised himself.

"Fine." Loki growled darkly. "Then you've brought this on yourself!"

It hit him like a sledge hammer, knocking him back onto his back and leaving him gasping and writhing on the ground. Even though Loki was no longer holding his head – was instead standing over him with a vicious scowl on his face – it felt like his skull was being crushed. Like a hand had tightened around his brain and was just _squeezing._

He didn't know when he started screaming, but he _did_. And he didn't stop, couldn't. And then suddenly something just _snapped_ and like a rubber band that had just broken, the pressure disappeared.

But Clint didn't have time to bask in the respite because the doors around them were flying open with loud, overwhelming clangs. Clint curled onto his side, covering his ears as voices and sounds started swirling around him. Wind from an unknown source whipped through the hallway like a tornado.

He felt a hand lock around his wrist and yank him to his knees, then up to his feet.

"Show me!"

Clint looked at Loki, watched the wind whip the god's long black hair around his face. Clint swallowed, felt the hand on his wrist tighten at the same time the pain in his head intensified.

Clint wanted to refuse, to tell Loki to go fuck himself and get the hell out of his head.

But even as he tried to muster the words to do it, he was slammed with a compulsion to _obey._

Without his realizing what he was doing, he nodded.

The hallway melted away, giving way to a dark, rainy night. The grass had mostly turned to mud beneath their feet and the rolling thunder above them promised continued rain for hours to come.

Clint felt his breath catch in his chest as he looked around.

_No. Not here._

"What is it? What is this place?" Loki demanded sharply.

Even as the words left the god's mouth, Clint watched _himself_ – at 15 – come tearing around the corner of a tent, slipping and sliding in the mud. There was blood on his face, red blotchy bruises already starting to form on his bare skin.

He watched himself fall. Watched Jacques come casually around the corner. Watched Barney circle behind him, out of sight.

The world faded from focus. His senses dulled. The only think he could hear was the blood pumping in his ears. The only thing he could see was _himself_ , pleading with his brother. When the knife came down, Clint gasped, hand flying to his chest and knees going weak. He hit the ground with a splat, spraying dirty water and mud across his pants.

He couldn't breathe.

"I've seen enough." Loki's voice rang out over him.

The grass and mud beneath him disappeared in a flash, replaced by basic, off white tile floors. The pain in his chest vanished, giving him the drive to look up and around.

It was a hallway. The walls were painted that off-white color professional organizations seemed to favor. Clint frowned. This was the SHIELD base in New York. His eyes widened in horror as he watched himself, Natasha and Phil wearily talk over the bodies of the mercenaries they'd just killed.

"What's that make it?" His other self asked tiredly as he kicked over a body and retrieved an arrow.

"Gotta be under a dozen by now." Natasha was the one to reply.

Clint moved forward even as Phil spoke.

"No!" Clint shouted uselessly. They didn't hear him.

"We should –"

There was a sharp rapport of gunfire and then his younger self was rushing past them, firing his bow as he went.

Clint stepped forward again, but not after the archer. He moved instead, in the opposite direction. Towards the figure jerking with the impact of several bullets and falling heavily to the ground. Natasha dove to her knees beside the downed man.

Clint tried to move again, but found that he was frozen in place.

"This man…he means something to you." Loki's voice was victorious, as if he'd discovered some deeply harbored secret.

Clint watched Natasha shout his name, watched his own body fly past them and skid to his knees next to Phil.

Mean something? Phil was the only father he'd ever really known, having been robbed of his real one as a child. The man was the brother to replace the one who'd betrayed him. He was the friend he'd never known he needed.

He was just… _Phil_ …and all that name encompassed. This was the attack on the New York base. This was the one and only time Clint had been truly afraid he'd lose the man forever.

"Phil…" Loki rolled the name over his tongue slowly, nodding. And as if that was a cue – before Clint had time to wonder how Loki knew Phil's name when Clint hadn't said it – the hallway melted away, fading into a dark, silent corridor. A lone figure was moving quietly ahead of them, gun at the ready. The man had blood on his hands and bruises on his skin, but his hands were steady and his steps sure.

Clint watched as the man reared up in surprise when a smaller figure with jaggedly cut, short bright red hair tore around the corner and raised her own gun to face him.

Clint felt his chest clench.

Natasha.

He knew this scene. He knew what this memory was. Germany. Less than six months ago.

"Natasha?" Loki parroted the thought. "The woman from the hallway?"

Clint didn't bother replying as he watched the scene unfold.

"Natasha," his past self breathed in relief, dropping his gun to his side.

Even as Natasha stared at him with dark, angry eyes and kept her gun up, Clint felt the same confusion from that night well up in him again.

"Tash?" his other self asked warily, shifting his body slightly in his confusion.

Without warning, she fired her gun and Clint felt the pain of the bullet seer through his bicep.

Then she was attacking, like a demon straight out of hell. And Clint could only watch as his other self was forced to defend, to do his best to fight her off without hurting her.

But Natasha had always been better at hand to hand than him and he'd already fought a small army that night. It didn't take long for her to take him to the ground.

"Natasha!" he'd tried again as her knee dug into his sternum and a previously hidden knife pressed up into the tender flesh under his chin.

But her green gaze had been hard and cold.

"My name is Natalia." His other self stared at her in shocked bewilderment which only worsened when she went on, "Who the hell are you?"

Even now, months later, Clint still felt the pain of that moment. The absolutely gutting realization that she was lost to him, maybe forever.

She'd been taken, captured, by a former Red Room instructor. She'd been tortured and subjected to the most vicious, brutal brainwashing techniques that existed. And they'd used him to do it. They'd convinced her that he was dead, that _she_ had killed him. In her grief, she'd been vulnerable. That lie had given them the foothold they'd needed to do what the Red Room had never succeeded in before.

Even as the dark hallway faded around them, Loki spoke.

"You could not bring yourself to harm her, even as she tried to kill you."

Clint didn't reply. He stared into the darkness around him, at the spot he'd last seen her. He closed his eyes and firmly told himself that it hadn't ended there. That he'd gotten her back.

"Losing her. _Hurting_ her…you fear this."

 _Yes_.

More than anything anybody could ever do to him. Loki sounded fascinated, as if he couldn't fathom such a concept as putting another's life above your own.

"You fear losing him…losing _her_ …more even than you fear your betraying brother."

Losing them, Phil and Natasha, it scared him more than almost anything else.

"Almost…" Loki heard the thought and rounded on him, eyes piercing. "There's more. Something you haven't shown me. What is it?" Loki demanded. "What is your deepest fear?"

Clint just stared at him. He knew he didn't have a choice. The scene around them was already changing. It was only a matter of time and Loki would know the truth.

"What do I fear, Loki?" Clint challenged quietly as a room took shape around them. The space was simple, bare, but for one thing on the wall.

A mirror.

"I don't…" Loki looked perplexed. He didn't understand.

But Clint did.

He moved to face the mirror, watching his reflection take form. He felt more than saw Loki move to stand at his shoulder.

His own reflection stared back at him, but at the same time…it wasn't him. The version of himself looking back at them could only be described in one way…darkness. It encompassed him, shined through his eyes, lined the angles of his face, bled into the space around him.

He _was_ darkness.

He was Clint – as he feared he would one day become. As he had once been before Phil found him. This is what he would turn into the day he gave in to the darkness lurking inside him.

"You." Loki came to the realization quietly. "Your greatest fear…it's _yourself._ "

Clint didn't bother answering. But in his mind he whispered fiercely.

 _Someday soon…I'll be_ _**your** _ _greatest fear too._

And that was a goddamned promise.

Loki's piercing blue gaze locked with his, anger bubbling forth once again, and Clint knew the thought had been heard.

"You won't get the chance," Loki spat back acidly as he advanced on him.

Clint couldn't hold back the slight flinch when Loki's hands locked around his temples once again, the pain in his head – never having faded – amplified exponentially.

"I will _break_ you and leave you shattered on the ground. You've just given me the weapon."

Then the ground dropped out beneath him.

* * *

Clint gasped like he was breaking the surface of the ocean after nearly drowning, coming back to himself abruptly and without warning. He coughed, dragging air into his burning lungs and doubling over, pressing his forehead into the cool concrete of the floor.

He felt a presence shift above him but couldn't find the energy to raise his head to look.

"You can fight all you wish. But it will be for nothing." Loki's voice had him closing his eyes and trying to block it out. "I will see you destroyed before my purpose here is fulfilled."

"Agent Barton!"

Clint opened his eyes, staring at the dark gray concrete beneath him. Selvig. Selvig was calling for him.

Above him Loki seemed to hesitate, then spoke in a tight voice.

"Go. You and I will speak again soon enough and _then_ you will know the plans I have for you."

Clint didn't reply. There wasn't anything for him to say. He'd gone to battle with Loki and he'd lost. The battle may not have been physical, but he felt as drained and beaten as if he'd gone ten rounds in the ring.

A command rebounded through his pounding, aching head.

_I said GO!_

He flinched, the volume and force behind the order causing new pain to slice through him. He didn't consciously make the decision to move, but he pushed slowly to his feet, wavering drunkenly.

"You will speak nothing of this. You will assist Dr. Selvig in whatever he requires." Loki spoke casually, but firmly, his expression once again bearing that silky, devious grin. "Do you understand, Agent Barton?"

He found himself nodding and without waiting to be told again, he turned and headed across the bunker to where Selvig worked.

But despite the obedience, he felt something stirring in his consciousness once again. It was weak, but gaining strength. Loki had beat it down, but it was still there.

And he knew exactly what it was.

 _Defiance_.

* * *

_End of Chapter 3_

_Anybody else want to wrap Clint up in a warm fluffy blanket and protect him forever after that? The guy has been through SO MUCH...and as you can tell, me and Loki, not friends._

_So what do you guys think? That chapter was actually almost all original *pats self on back* I do know that having the movie scenes in there can get grating, since we've all seen the movie. I just hope you guys understand that without them, this fic would be disjointed at best. I want it to flow as an actual story, not just be a bunch of filler scenes, you know? I crave your thoughts and feelings! :D_

_To hold you over until tomorrow, a preview!_

* * *

_More defensive adrenaline flooded his system as he raised his gaze, already knowing **exactly** where that threat was coming from._

_His gaze locked with Loki's._

_The god's eyes were wide with surprise – Clint got it, he was surprised too – but they quickly narrowed in anger. He advanced, bringing up the spear._

_Even while wading through the overwhelming wealth of sensory information, even while trying to sort out **how** he'd managed to break free, even while concentrating on the feeling of his bow in his hand, he knew one thing with absolute certainty._

_If that spear touched him again, it was over._


	4. I'm Breaking Out of This Cage

_Disclaimer: I do not own "The Avengers" or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works. I do not claim any of the directly quoted lines from "The Avengers" as my own, they belong to Marvel and the writers._ _The cover art came from a google search with the original source being pinterest where it was credited to Anthony Genuardi._

 _Author's Note: While I embrace_ **_constructive_ ** _criticism, remember this old saying if you choose to leave a review "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all"_

* * *

 _Special thanks to all who reviewed Chapter Three:_ **Firali, Evenstar129, RoS13, RandominatorOwl, beargirl1393, Kali588, zombie_socks,** _and_ **Isi7140**

  _Continued thanks to my wonderful betas_ **Kylen** _and_ **JRBarton** _for their wonderful support and beta-powers throughout this story._

_**Trigger warning**! This chapter contains references to intended rape. The reference is not graphic, nor is it specific, but I wanted to issue the warning anyway. So please be aware going forward._

_Our journey continues..._

* * *

_Last time in The Untold Stories:_

_But despite the obedience, he felt something stirring in his consciousness once again. It was weak, but gaining strength. Loki had beat it down, but it was still there._

_And he knew exactly what it was._

_Defiance._

* * *

_And one path we shall never choose, and that is the path of surrender or submission._  
**_John F. Kennedy_ **

* * *

_April 12, 2012_  
_5:25 p.m. Local Time (7:55 a.m. NYC)  
_ _Helicarrier, Hangar Deck_

* * *

Natasha watched the ramp lower on the jet and moved forward, watching Phil walk off with a man she recognized as Captain Steve Rogers.

She barely held back a grin as she imagined her handler's reaction to meeting his long-time hero.

"Agent Romanoff – Captain Rogers," Phil introduced.

"Ma'am," the tall blonde nodded in greeting.

She couldn't remember the last time someone had called her 'ma'am' – if anyone ever had.

"Hi," she replied simply, already looking to Phil, and directing the conversation towards their larger priorities. "They need you on the bridge. They're starting the face trace."

When she'd arrived just before 8 a.m. and found out they hadn't even started _that_ yet, she'd let her frustration be known in Fury's office. Clint had been missing for 29 hours. 29 hours and they hadn't even started looking. Fury had calmly explained that they were doing the best they could with the time that had been afforded them. But chaos was the current rule and they were going to start the trace as soon as they possibly could. There'd been no reprimand for speaking her mind, but there'd been no real explanation for the delay either.

Then he'd firmly told her to go get some sleep.

She hadn't.

She'd hit the gym instead, taking out her fears and frustrations on a body dummy.

At least with Phil here now, nobody would get away with slacking on the search for Clint.

Her handler nodded in response to her directive.

"See you there." He gave her a meaningful look then looked at Rogers. Apparently it was her job to play welcoming committee. She shifted to let Phil know she understood and then he walked away. Natasha put on her friendliest smile and walked with Rogers as he moved to explore the deck.

"It was quite the buzz around here, finding you in the ice. Thought Coulson was gonna swoon. Did he ask you to sign his Captain America trading cards yet?" She couldn't help but smirk. Phil was like a big kid when it came to any Captain America merchandise.

"Trading cards?" Rogers asked distractedly as he looked around at all the jets.

"They're vintage." Natasha smirked wider. "He's very proud."

For a moment, it felt so normal, talking about Phil's trading cards. She and Clint joked with Phil about them on a semi-regular basis, teasing the older man for his obsession. Though she knew for a fact, Clint had gone to extreme and dangerous lengths to ensure Phil had the full set.

Movement ahead of them caught her eye and she watched Banner move around, bouncing off various agents like a pin ball as he bumped into them. Rogers saw him too and started forward.

"Doctor Banner."

Banner looked at Steve, a hint of a smile turning up the corners of his mouth.

"Oh, yeah, hi. They told me you'd be coming."

Natasha mostly tuned them out, turning her head and pressing her earpiece farther into her ear when a call came over it. It was always harder to hear out on the deck like this.

" _All personnel prepare for take-off. Take-off pending in 90 seconds."_

She dropped her hand from her ear, relieved for an excuse to go inside and check the status of the face trace herself. She stepped up to get Banner and Rogers' attention.

"Gentlemen, you might wanna step inside in a minute. It's gonna get a little hard to breathe."

A call came over the loud speaker to secure the deck. Natasha watched Banner and Rogers move to the edge, peering out at the water, both looking wary.

"Is this a submarine?" Rogers asked. Natasha didn't bother answering, it would be obvious soon enough.

"Really? They want me in a submerged, pressurized metal container?"

Natasha quirked her lips. Banner was really proving to have an odd and dry sense of humor.

She braced herself as take-off began and they started to rise out of the water.

"Oh, no." Banner backed up a step. "This is much worse."

They continued to rise and Natasha shifted, catching both of their attention.

"If you'll follow me inside, I'll take you to the bridge."

Both still looking a little awe-struck, they followed without complaint. She led the way off the deck and into the heart of the carrier, making her way to the bridge. Once there, she peeled off immediately, leaving both men to their own devices as she zeroed in on the computer screen running the trace on Clint. She moved over to it and crouched, quietly questioning the tech running the program about its progress.

"There's nothing yet," he replied just as quietly. "But we've only just started. I don't even have us keyed into half the cameras in Europe and none of the ones in Asia."

"How long until you have access to all of them?" she asked, even as she remained vaguely aware of the conversation going on nearby.

"Minutes. Then, if he's out there, I'll find him." The young tech looked so earnest and determined, Natasha couldn't help but feel a small spring of hope. Just as quickly, though, her thoughts turned darker. Maybe they did find Clint, but they had no guarantee that he'd be _Clint_ when they did. She could get him back only to really have already lost him forever. Whatever Loki had done to him, it could be permanent, or even it if it wasn't, it could be causing permanent damage.

They had to find him. They had to find him _soon_.

She shook herself, acknowledging that entertaining worst-case scenarios wasn't the most effective use of her time at the moment. She was in the middle of the bridge, for one, and couldn't afford to let her emotions overwhelm her. And she had a job to do. Clint would want her to do it.

She looked up as she heard Phil explaining the face trace.

"It's still not gonna find them in time," she pointed out. Not in time to stop Clint from carrying out the destruction she knew he was capable of. She'd often considered how lucky they were that he was on their side, but she'd never thought the day would come that he _wasn't_.

Banner looked suddenly thoughtful.

"You have to narrow your field. How many spectrometers do you have access to?"

Fury lifted his chin a little arrogantly, nearly drawing a grin from Natasha.

"How many are there?"

Banner looked unaffected by the bravado and just started issuing instructions instead.

"Call every lab you know. Tell them to put the spectrometers on the roof and calibrate them for gamma rays. I'll rough out a tracking algorithm, basic cluster recognition. At least we could rule out a few places. Do you have somewhere for me to work?"

Natasha blinked, suddenly really glad Banner was on their team too…and not just because of his greener side.

"Agent Romanoff, would you show Doctor Banner to his laboratory, please?"

Natasha pushed herself up to standing and headed towards Banner, leading him to the door.

"You're gonna love it, Doc. We got all the toys."

"Really? Do you have the Commodore 64?"

Natasha hesitated, not recognizing the piece of equipment he was asking for.

"I'm not sure…"

"Oh," he interrupted her with a chuckle, "you're very young."

Natasha didn't argue. She supposed she _was_ considered young to most.

"So," Banner hedged as he followed her through the crowded halls, "the missing agent…you know him?"

"Why would you ask that?" she shot him a suspicious look over her shoulder. While most everybody within SHIELD knew she and Clint were partnered once upon a time, and were therefore considered friends, very few had any idea how much they actually meant to each other. And as far as she knew, Banner hadn't even _heard_ of Clint until today.

"Well, the first thing you did when we got to the bridge was go check the trace on him."

Natasha felt her hackles lower. Banner wasn't turning out to be so bad. She heard nothing but genuine curiosity in his tone.

"I've worked with him," she admitted. But she left it at that.

Banner shot her a look that was full of doubt, like he knew that wasn't the whole story. But he didn't pry further. They spent the rest of the walk in silence and when the lab was in sight, she gestured him ahead of her.

"There you go, Doc."

He nodded, moving to the door.

"Thank you, Natasha."

"Romanoff," she corrected out of habit.

He turned and gave her a curious look. She couldn't really blame him, she'd let him use her first name in the shack in India. Though, in her defense, he'd just scared the shit out of her and correcting him had been the last thing on her mind.

"First names, they hold power. It's a familiarity that has to be earned."

Something akin to respect lit his eyes and he nodded.

"I suppose I'll just have to earn it then."

Natasha couldn't quite help the small smile that turned up the corners of her mouth as Banner headed into the lab and left her standing in the hall.

No, Hulk or not, Banner wasn't so bad.

* * *

 _April 12, 2012_  
_2:40 p.m. Local Time (8:40 a.m. NYC)  
_ _Loki's Lair, somewhere in Europe_

* * *

"Put it over there."

Clint ignored Selvig and focused on the tablet in his hand, sifting through the information the scientist had given him to figure out what he needed to find and where to find it. He rolled his neck, trying to alleviate some of the pressure of his headache. It was no use. His head just goddamned hurt. Hurt worse than it'd ever hurt before. And for someone who'd had as many concussions as _he_ had, that was saying something. Whatever physical effect Loki's mind-fuck had caused, didn't seem to be lessening. He'd done his best to ignore the pain, to go on about his job here and act as if he weren't one wrong move away from landing face first on the cement.

Then there was the complete lack of control over his own actions.

This feeling – one of complete compulsion to do the bidding of another – stood at such odds with his own instincts. The battle waging for dominance – one Loki himself had made him aware of – now continued at a nauseating pace. Back and forth – obedience and defiance.

Jesus, he was making himself feel sick just thinking about it.

A wave of unease flowed through him and for a moment, his defiance was the victor. But just as quickly, an overpowering need to continue his mission washed back in. He drew in a slow, deep breath and let it out just as carefully, refocusing on the tablet in his hands.

"Where did you find all these people?" Selvig asked as he glanced around.

Clint thought back to his meeting with Luca Bertolini in Palermo and the team of men he'd…commandeered…from that exchange.

"SHIELD has no shortage of enemies, Doctor." And it was easy to recruit when you had a magic spear to convince the mob lord he'd already been paid – sure as hell beat actually paying a bastard like that anything.

He found what he was looking for on the tablet.

"This the stuff you need?" He flipped the tablet around for Selvig to see.

The scientist nodded.

"Yeah. Iridium. It's found in meteorites, it forms anti-protons. It's very hard to get ahold of."

From what Clint had found, that was an understatement. And that wasn't even the worst part.

"Especially if SHIELD knows you need it."

Considering this whole situation would have activated the Avengers Initiative, Stark and Banner were probably on the case already. Alone, the two men were individual geniuses. Together, they could easily be considered a brain trust of sorts. They'd know what Selvig needed soon and where to find it, if they hadn't figured it out already.

"Well, I didn't know," Selvig muttered sourly.

Clint felt his muscles tense of their own accord as Loki approached behind him, as slowly and slyly as a snake in the grass. Selvig was more excited about their self-appointed leader's arrival than Clint, apparently feeling no such trepidation from Loki's presence. But then Loki hadn't just taken the equivalent of a sledge hammer to _Selvig's_ brain…

"Hey!" the doctor greeted the Asgardian. "This is wonderful. The tesseract has shown me so much. It's – it's more than knowledge, it's _truth_."

Loki smiled the dark, mischievous grin of his and replied.

"I know. It touches everyone differently."

A chill raced through him when he felt Loki's gaze settle on him. He did his level best to appear unaffected. He knew now that he wasn't imagining the weight of that gaze. Loki could see _into_ his head, could hear – or at least sense – his thoughts. Nothing was protected anymore. Nothing was safe.

"What did it show _you_ , Agent Barton?"

The compulsion to reply honestly came out of nowhere, as if it were an inherent instinct.

"My next target."

The cube hadn't so much _shown_ him anything. Rather, it had shown _Selvig_ what he needed and the doctor had passed that information along. Either way, he wasn't going to wax poetic about a block of energy that so far, had done nothing but make his headache _worse._

"Stick in the mud." Selvig cackled at him. "He's got no soul. No wonder you chose this…this _tomb_ to work in."

Clint glared at the doctor. He likely had no idea how close to the mark he really was. But Clint knew, and thanks to his mind-raping frolic in Clint's head, Loki knew too. He wondered if he was imagining the wave of sadistic glee that rolled off Loki in the next moment. He shook off his growing feeling of unease – and his growing desire to tell Loki to stop _goddamn looking at him –_ and did the only thing he could. Defend his tactical decision in choosing the bunker.

"Well, the Radisson doesn't have three levels of lead-lined flooring between SHIELD and that cube."

Selvig just ignored him, walking back to where he'd been working before he started yapping at Loki like a puppy begging for attention.

"I see why Fury chose you to guard it."

Loki's voice drew Clint's attention back to him and he met the Asgardian's gaze evenly. Back to the mind games it seemed. Before he could reply with what he instinctively wanted to say – something colorful about Loki, the spear and a place the sun didn't shine – a voice echoed painfully through his head.

_Consider your words wisely, Agent Barton._

The extra zing of pain that cracked through his head a moment later really knocked the point home. He swallowed down a wave of nausea and felt the compulsion of obedience gain dominance.

"You're going to have to contend with him, sir. As long as he's in the air, I can't pin him down. And he'll be putting together a team."

Not just _a_ team, _the_ team. The team that would end all teams – the goddamned Avengers. Withholding that particular fact, no matter how small it was, felt like a victory. So he took it as one.

"Are they a threat?" Loki asked.

Yes, undeniably. But as he started to gain control again, seesawing back into the driver's seat of his consciousness, he found himself able to hedge around that fact.

"To each other more than likely. But if Fury can get them on track, and he might, they could throw some noise our way."

Loki's gaze narrowed. Clint cursed inwardly. He shouldn't have mentioned Fury. Shouldn't have drawn the attention back to the man he'd failed to kill.

"You admire Fury?" Loki asked carefully. A leading question, one that could spell trouble if he didn't answer in the right way.

Clint's head throbbed and he resisted the urge to rub his forehead. This word-dance was mentally exhausting and he'd already been through the wringer. The harder he fought, the stronger the exhaustion became…and the easier it was for the compulsion of obedience to stay in control.

"He's got a clear line of sight." It was something he admired about Fury. That _had_ essentially been what Loki had asked.

Loki's gaze burned him as the son of a bitch studied him – no doubt reading the fledgling resistance in the vague explanation.

"Is that why you failed to kill him?"

Clint narrowed his gaze, wondering what Loki's play was here. He already _knew_ Clint was fighting, was rebelling against the god's control. _He'd_ been the one to clue Clint in about it in the first place.

So why the hell was he asking?

Movement in his periphery alerted him to Selvig's attention refocusing on them.

Then Clint understood.

Selvig had seen Clint – master of all marksmen – fail to kill Fury. This whole dance was for the doctor's benefit. It was Loki showing Selvig that – _no_ , Clint was _not_ beyond his control. _No_ , there was no resisting. _No_ , there was no use trying.

If Clint hadn't been so goddamned exhausted, he might have been able to resist playing along. But as it was, he had little choice. He'd lost ground in his mental battle for dominance. And no matter how hard he tried, he was having trouble getting back into the fight.

"It might be." He hedged in an attempt to sell the act to Selvig. "I was disoriented, and I'm not at my best with a gun."

That wasn't exactly a lie, should be sufficient to convince Selvig of its truth. Sure, he wasn't at his _best_ with a gun, but he sure as hell was better than most everyone else in the world. Selvig likely didn't know that though, they hadn't exactly taken the time to get acquainted.

Loki, seemingly pleased that Clint was offering little to no resistance at the moment, went on, pressing his advantage.

"I want to know everything you can tell me about this team of his. I would…test their mettle."

Clint nodded, but Loki was already continuing.

"I am weary of this scuttling in shadow. I mean to rule this world, not burrow in it."

Aiming for grandeur had led to the downfall of more than one world leader.

"That's a risk," he felt compelled to warn.

"Oh, yes." Loki agreed with a maniacal grin.

Clint figured he'd done his part in trying to dissuade him from the reckless course of action. Maybe he could use Loki's yearning for attention to make Clint's next objective easier.

"If you're set on making yourself known, I could be useful."

Loki smiled at him.

"Tell me what you need."

Clint moved over to the case that currently held his bow. He wrapped his hand around it and snapped it open, focusing for a moment on the familiarity of the weapon in his hand.

"I need a distraction." Even as he spoke, something sparked back to life inside him. Holding his treasured weapon – something that was so completely a _part_ of him – sent a shot of adrenaline through him. "And an eyeball." He finished only to blink and stumble a step as sudden warmth raced up his arm and spread across his chest and to the rest of his body. Something ignited in his mind, fiery and strong.

A tidal wave of strength and defiance swept through him, knocking the compulsion that had been dogging him since Loki first touched him with the spear right on its ass then sweeping it away.

Son of a _bitch_ …

He gasped, his free hand going to his temple as the unfounded loyalty to Loki faded away and left nothing but a swirling storm of confusion and raging emotions in its wake.

Not sure what to do with the overwhelmingly powerful surge of strength, his mind channeled it into one thing that had always served him well.

His instincts.

Every sense suddenly felt overwhelmed, but none so much as his innate ability to sense a threat.

 _That_ particular instinct was practically going off like a siren.

More defensive adrenaline flooded his system as he raised his gaze, already knowing _exactly_ where that threat was coming from.

His gaze locked with Loki's.

The god's eyes were wide with surprise – Clint got it, he was surprised too – but they quickly narrowed in anger. He advanced, bringing up the spear.

Even while wading through the overwhelming wealth of sensory information, even while trying to sort out _how_ he'd managed to break free, even while concentrating on the feeling of his bow in his hand, he knew _one_ thing with absolute certainty.

If that spear touched him again, it was over.

He retreated a step instinctively, buying some room as he swung his bow in a wide sweep. He knocked the spear away even as he drew his side arm, taking aim at Loki's forehead. The Asgardian swung his arm, knocking the gun out of Clint's hand even as it fired, the bullet shifting the hair on Loki's temple but then embedding itself harmlessly in a piece of equipment.

The force of the hit left Clint's fingers numb. But with Loki still advancing, there was no time to acknowledge it. He let his instincts rule him – guide him – and swung his bow back, catching Loki hard across the chin.

So focused was he on Loki – on the biggest and most dangerous threat in the room – that he failed to acknowledge the presence creeping up behind him until it was too late. He tried to duck away, but wasn't quite fast enough.

Selvig's wrench caught him with a glancing blow across the back of his head, hitting his shoulder more than it did anything else. It was the only distraction Loki needed. The back of Loki's hand caught him hard in the jaw, putting him on the ground as effectively as a baseball bat would have. His bow went skittering across the cement.

Jesus, any harder and he'd have dislocated his jaw – or broken it. As it was, that goddamned fake molar had torn free.

Strangely, the blow centered him, helped him gain a handle on the emotions and instincts that had been running rampant and overwhelming him.

Clint felt blood filling his mouth from a cut on the inside of his cheek, but didn't have time to do anything about it before Loki's boot caught him in the shoulder, knocking him onto his back.

Then the Asgardian's hand was around his throat, pulling him up and backing him roughly into the crates stacked behind him. Selvig danced out of the way, wrench still firmly in his grip and eyes looking an odd mixture between intrigued by Clint's situation, angry at his own lack of attention from Loki, and confused by the warring emotions.

"How?!" Loki demanded as he held Clint against the crates and tightened his grip on his throat just to the point of pain, but not so much that he couldn't draw in breath to respond. Clint gripped Loki's wrist with his left hand – though with his fingers still tingling, the strength of his grip was tenuous at best – and pushed uselessly against Loki's chest with the other.

He glared at him, refusing to reply. Loki had been having his way with him since this mess started. He'd been forcing confessions and compelling loyalty. No more. Clint was in the driver's seat now.

_Go to hell, you fucking bastard._

Clint pulled his right hand away from Loki's chest, knowing he wouldn't be able to push the god away. He slid it slowly to his back, to either of the two knives he kept hidden there. To distract from the action, Clint drew in a breath through his nose, and then spit – spraying Loki with the blood from his mouth and sending the tooth bouncing off his forehead.

It was a stupid thing to do – Natasha and Phil both would have had his hide for it – but it felt _so damn_ good. And it gave Clint the moment he needed to get his fingers around one of his knives – the one Phil gave him by the feel of the hilt.

All it did was piss Loki off further.

The hand on his throat tightened, cutting off air intake. Clint used Loki's momentary distraction with rage to slide the knife free of its sheath. In a move lighting quick, too fast for the untrained eye to follow, he was arching the knife towards Loki's jugular.

In a move equally fast, Loki had dropped the scepter and used his now free hand to catch Clint's wrist. The tip of the blade scratched the exposed skin of Loki's neck, drawing a small drop of blood. But then Loki was forcing the knife away, the bones in Clint's wrist were grinding together under the strength of his grip. A moment more of the excruciating pressure and his hand lost feeling, the knife slipping away and clattering to the floor.

"I should kill you," Loki hissed as he leaned close and pressed Clint harder against the crates. Clint could feel the hard corners digging into his back with bruising force. "But I won't, _not yet_. What I will do to you will be far worse than _death_."

Loki yanked him forward then, and shifted them both. He released Clint's numb right wrist and held out his hand. A moment later Selvig was reverently placing the spear back in his grip.

Then he started forcing Clint backwards again – hand still tight around his throat – Clint could do nothing but hold on to Loki's wrist with his own hands and scramble to keep his feet under him.

He kept expecting to get slammed into a wall, kept waiting for the jarring pain.

But Loki just kept forcing him back until they were far away from everyone else, in an isolated corner of the bunker.

Then the wall finally came.

Clint's breath left him in a rush of air from to the force of the impact. Unexpectedly, though, Loki let him draw in a breath to replace it. His hand on Clint's throat more for control now than pain.

He wanted him conscious and listening apparently, not suffocating. Clint wasn't sure that was all that heartening.

He tried to buck against the hold, hoping to use the momentary small mercy to gain some sort of advantage. All he managed to do was get Loki to tighten his grip, once again to the point right before his air intake would have been compromised.

The god leaned in closer, his voice a nothing but a whisper in his ear.

"You have shown me your heart, Agent Barton."

Clint kept fighting, struggling uselessly against the Asgardian's strength.

_Goddamnit, he was so fucking helpless._

"Now I will show you how I will _destroy_ it," Loki's whisper shifted to an angry hiss.

The spear hit his chest without warning and with brutal, bruising force, barely a shade above breaking skin.

The ice hit Clint like a sledge hammer. There was no slow, cresting wave this time – just absolute cold and pain.

He knew he screamed, but didn't hear it. He couldn't hear anything but his heart pounding mercilessly in his chest. He could see anything but bright, blinding ice blue. He couldn't feel anything but horrible, all-encompassing _pain._

It was worse this time, compounded by the brutality that had already been delivered to his mind. His defenses were in shambles, he had no way to protect himself. Loki's hostile takeover was fast and dirty, no finesse, no care taken – just brutal and vicious.

Whatever emotions he'd managed to regain were pounded to dust. Whatever freedom he'd won was shackled and thrown into the abyss. Whatever strength he had was beaten until there was nothing left.

Then, when Clint thought Loki had decided to just kill him, the pain stopped.

He opened his eyes – though he didn't remember closing them – to see Loki staring coldly at him.

Then without a word, Loki propped the spear against the wall and reached with both hands for Clint's head.

"No…" was all he managed before Loki's palms locked around his temples.

Then the pain was back.

He hit his knees and Loki let him fall, kept his hands pressed to Clint's head without mercy.

"See, now, the plans I have for you," Loki hissed in a low, vicious whisper.

And then it started. It played out like a poorly spliced movie before his eyes, fractured scenes and abrupt shifts.

It was him, fighting Natasha.

"You will yearn to make her bleed." Loki's voice narrated darkly.

Clint watched himself hit her, watched her fall. He watched himself pursue her to the ground, kicking away the hand she tried to use to push herself up.

" _Clint…please…"_

He watched himself ignore the plea and hit her again, hard enough to put her on the ground, stunned.

"You will hunger for her fear."

Clint watched himself straddle her, locking her wrists together in one of his larger, stronger hands and pinning them above her head.

" _Clint, this isn't you! Please! You have to hear me!"_

She writhed beneath him, bucking and flailing, doing whatever she could to try and knock him off balance. But he was fixated and determined. He wasn't going to be dissuaded from his goal.

" _Clint!"_

" _Shut up!"_ he heard himself snarl at her, landing a brutal backhand to her mouth that sent blood spraying. He caught her jaw in his hand and squeezed it tightly. _"Don't say another fucking word."_

He saw fear start to take form in her eyes. Fear of him.

"You will ache to destroy her in every way you know she fears. You, who she holds most dear, will be her undoing and her end."

Clint watched his free hand go for the zipper on her uniform, watched her eyes widen and her efforts to free herself gain strength.

"She will beg for mercy, but you will give her none."

" _Clint…if you're in there, you've got to hear me! You've got to snap out of it! Please!"_

He watched himself go on as if she hadn't spoken, brutally yanking the zipper down and then reaching for her belt.

" _Please, don't…"_

"You will do this. You will want this. You will enjoy every vile moment of it."

The scene faded away and Clint found himself looking up into Loki's crystal blue gaze.

"You will hunt her as the hawk you are named for hunts its prey. Then, when you have finished your brutal work, you will be released from my hold and you will look upon what you've done."

Even as Loki said the words, a yearning filled him – a dark, violent hunger for the blood of the woman he'd once been willing to die to protect.

"Then, and _only then_ , will I release you from this burden of a life."

* * *

Loki felt the dark desires he'd planted take root in Barton's mind. He narrowed his gaze, studying the kneeling man before him, searching for any sign of the defiance that had been so strong before.

It was there, a small, weak flicker buried deep in the darkness of his mind. Even as Loki focused on it, the flicker grew weaker.

Satisfied, Loki withdrew his hands from Barton's head and stepped back.

The archer collapsed forward, barely catching himself on his hands, head hung low and breathing ragged.

 _Stand_. He commanded through the mental link the scepter afforded him.

Immediately Barton pushed off the ground, staggering to his feet and ending up having to reach for the wall behind him to stay upright.

Calmly, Loki reached past him for the scepter, never taking his eyes of Barton's face.

"I would know how you broke the hold I had on you."

The archer's reply came immediately.

"The bow." Though his breaths were still a little gasping, his voice was gaining strength.

He was a warrior, this one.

"The bow?" He recalled the archer handling his bow just before he'd broken free.

"There was an…attachment…something emotional. It's…" Barton's brow furrowed slightly in vague confusion. "I don't feel it anymore."

Intriguing that a physical object could hold such power in a mortal's life.

"You're certain?" Loki pressed, willing the man to speak honestly.

A slight wince crossed the agent's features and Loki knew his compulsion had been received.

Barton nodded sharply.

"Prove yourself to me," Loki demanded.

Barton's eyebrow arched in question. He didn't know how the man could speak so much through just a look, but Loki understood his meaning clearly.

"Tell me how _you_ would defeat Fury and this band of men he is gathering," he explained.

Barton's gaze grew a little thoughtful but after a moment he answered easily.

"Draw their eye, something big and showy – give me a chance to get what the doctor needs without them catching on."

"But they were will surely respond, confront me."

Barton nodded, face blank.

"Exactly. You want to defeat Fury? You want to defeat his team?" Loki nodded slowly, curiously. "Then let them take you. Surrender."

Loki scoffed.

"You would suggest I go into the lion's den willingly?"

" _I would suggest_ ," he heard a slightly mocking edge to Barton's voice, but ignored it momentarily, "You pull one over on their asses."

"Pull one over?"

Barton expression shifted, seemingly annoyed at Loki's lack of understanding.

"Trick them," he explained bluntly. "That is what you _do_ , isn't it?"

"What would you suggest?" Loki asked, intrigued now. Barton was correct, tricks _were_ his trade after all.

"There's a man named Bruce Banner, he's probably on board the carrier already. He's the key. Maybe you've heard of him, they call him The Hulk."

Loki shook his head slightly. What was a 'Hulk'?

"He's a giant green monster," Barton explained blandly. "Gets let loose when Banner gets really angry."

Loki tilted his head in acceptance. That could definitely be played in their favor. But Barton wasn't done.

"You've got multiple personalities to contend with there, and not all of them will blindly accept your surrender. Stark, he's an arrogant son of a bitch. He won't question it. Rogers, he's smart. He'll wonder. But he follows orders like a good little soldier. Word is he's not quite comfortable in this timeline yet."

"This timeline?"

"Long story short – super soldier, frozen in the ice for 70 years, just thawed out."

Loki nodded slowly, absorbing the new information, even as Barton went on.

"Banner, he probably won't even come into contact with you. He's a science guy. He'll be more interested in _that_." Barton nodded at the scepter. Loki looked at it too and then arched a questioning eyebrow at Barton. "So you use it to fuck him up and turn the Hulk loose."

"What of your lady love, Agent Romanoff?"

He watched with pleasure as Barton's gaze darkened and the vicious, violent desires of his soul suddenly seemed to permeate the air around them.

"She's a manipulator. She'll be sent to talk to you, maybe after Fury's had his way with you." Barton's jaw clenched as if he were fighting against his dark urges even now.

"How do I best her?"

"Use me."

Loki was surprised by the blunt revelation, but accepted it with a nod.

"And then?"

"Then?" Agent Barton's mouth curved into a dark, feral smile. "She's mine."

Loki nodded agreeably.

"As you wish, Agent Barton."

Barton rolled his neck and looked back at him.

Loki smiled. He liked this plan. There was no one here, in this realm, that could stop him. None that could match his strength and power.

And the one that could, that perhaps would stand a chance, he was still trapped on Asgard. Though Heimdall would no doubt relay Loki's actions to his father…

_No._

Odin was not his father.

Just as Thor was not his brother.

The revelation was still hard to accept, even after all this time. But it mattered not. Thor, even when he learned of Loki's work here, would be powerless to stop him.

He returned his gaze to the man before him.

"You've done well, Agent Barton." Loki regarded him closely. "I'm almost sorry I intend to kill you."

Barton's eyes flashed, not with defiance…but arrogance.

"You might find, when the time comes, that's not such an easy thing to do."

Loki smiled at the bravado, though it hardly seemed contrived.

"I think _you'll_ find, when the time comes, you'll welcome the release."

Barton didn't argue, just stared at him, compliant.

Loki smiled wider.

"Tell me more."

* * *

_End of Chapter 4_

_Wowza! Things are heating up! Can you believe it? Clint busted free of the mind control! If only briefly. But now you see how he went from a guy that resisted the order to kill Fury to the guy that tried to kill Natasha. There was a gap there that didn't make sense to me. I mean he can resist killing Fury, but he tries to gut Nat? I needed an explanation, so here we are ;) Loki's hold on him now is stronger, whatever fight Clint had left in him is gone. Heartbreaking isn't it?_

_You all know how I crave reviews, so drop me a line and make my day ;)_

_We'll be back tomorrow, until then, let this preview entice you_

* * *

_He needed to know that his promise to Clint would hold true, even if he wasn't here to keep it. He needed to know, and for Clint to know, that he would never abandon him. That he would always come._

_He took a breath and looked into the laptop webcam._

_He hit record._

_"Hey kid...at the risk of sounding cliché, if you're watching this, then I'm dead."_


	5. Letting You Know That You're Not Alone

_Disclaimer: I do not own "The Avengers" or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works. I do not claim any of the directly quoted lines from "The Avengers" as my own, they belong to Marvel and the writers._ _The cover art came from a google search with the original source being pinterest where it was credited to Anthony Genuardi._

 _Author's Note: While I embrace_ **_constructive_ ** _criticism, remember this old saying if you choose to leave a review "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all"_

* * *

 _Special thanks to all who reviewed Chapter Four:_ **Firali, RoS13, thiswilldrivemecrazy, Isi7140, Kali588, beargirl1393, RandominatorOwl, zombie_socks**

 _Continued thanks to my wonderful betas_ **Kylen** _and_ **JRBarton** _for their wonderful support and beta-powers throughout this story._ **Kylen _,_** _as usual, is the final word on anything concerning Dan Wilson. I'm not sure what of his dialogue she did and what I did, but she's the one that finalizes all his words ;)_

_**This A/N is IMPORTANT** : I'm now formally announcing that I'm going to be working on a REWRITE of Vantage Point (my first story) in conjunction with working on my next new story. That being said, Phil's video to Clint (as seen in Vantage Point) has been rewritten to an extent here. So it is not the same as it was when we first saw it. I rewrote it to more adequately reflect what Phil and Clint meant to each other at this point in their lives. The rewrite will be posted as a NEW story called "Vantage Point Revisted" so that everyone will always have the option of reading the old version if they so choose. The core of the story will remain the same but expect a lot more detail, character exploration, and general smoothness of writing ;)_

  _And the train keeps rollin..._

* * *

_Last time in The Untold Stories:  
_

_"I think you'll find, when the time comes, you'll welcome the release."_

_Barton didn't argue, just stared at him, compliant._

_Loki smiled wider._

_"Tell me more."_

* * *

_I am tired and sick of war. Its glory is all moonshine. It is only those who have neither fired a shot nor heard the shrieks and groans of the wounded who cry aloud for blood, for vengeance, for desolation. War is hell._  
**_William Tecumseh Sherman_ **

* * *

_April 12, 2012_  
_9:40 p.m. Local Time (3:40 p.m. NYC)  
_ _Helicarrier, somewhere over Northern Africa_

* * *

Phil slid by a group of agents moving down the hall and then had to pause at the infirmary door to let a small mass of people exit. Finally, he made it inside and headed for Dan's office. He knocked once and entered before he was invited.

He closed the door behind him and leaned back against it, looking across the office to where Dan sat at his desk, phone held to his ear by his shoulder and hands typing quickly on the keyboard of his laptop. He spared a hand only briefly to motion Phil into one of the two chairs sitting opposite his desk.

Phil found himself suddenly nostalgic for the old ratty couch that had once held residence in Dan's office back on the New York base. Unfortunately, when Dan was reassigned, the couch hadn't been able to make the trip. The new office just didn't have the room for it.

He sat in the chair anyway, slumping wearily as he waited.

They were heading back to New York now, after Phil had _just_ flown the same distance _from_ New York to meet with the carrier in the Indian Ocean. Fury had wanted the carrier as near to Banner as possible, just in case. By the time Natasha had the doctor on board, Phil and Captain Rogers had already been in route. It had made the most sense for the carrier to wait for them to arrive before they took off. Landing a jet while the carrier was in flight wasn't safe or easy. Fury had also thought it best to break the technological marvel of the Helicarrier to Rogers easy – rather than mid-flight. Now they had everyone in one place and were collectively heading back to the New York SHIELD base because they had no other place to go.

They didn't know Loki's plan.

They didn't know where he was.

All they knew was he had one of SHIELD's top agents and a brilliant astrophysicist as his captives and a magical spear in his arsenal. They had to assume Clint had been forced to reveal information about SHIELD. That made them all vulnerable.

Phil shook his head. He didn't want to think about _how_ Loki had forced Clint to talk. But with magic on his side, he doubted even Clint could have resisted indefinitely.

"Phil."

Phil looked up at Dan's call to find the doctor watching him seriously.

"You're better than that. Keep your head in the game."

"What?"

"I could see it all over your face. You were thinking about Barton."

Phil frowned, hardly believing he'd been displaying his thoughts so clearly. Dan was right – he needed to get his head back in the game.

"Well? Weren't you?" Dan asked.

"Yes…can't see how I can avoid that though." Clint was _all_ he could think about.

Dan sighed, then cracked a little bit of a wry grin.

"You probably can't. It's like telling you not to think of a pink elephant." Dan's face grew serious. "But you _can_ keep yourself from imagining every last damned worst-case scenario. You do it every damned time Barton finds himself in a jam."

"A jam?" Phil challenged blandly. "He's been taken as a POW in a war with an alien god on one side and a team of super humans on the other. How is that not already a worst-case scenario?"

"Because he's Clint fucking _Barton_. That kid would survive if you threw him in a pit of vipers with nothing but a toothpick. Hell, he'd probably emerge with a pair of snake-skin boots."

Phil quirked his lips slightly. However exaggerated, the point held true. Clint was a survivor, always had been.

"Look, Phil…there's nothing I can tell you about that kid that you don't already know. You gotta trust him to stay alive until you can find him. Simple as that."

"Simple, huh?" Phil frowned doubtfully.

"Yeah. _Simple_."

"And until I do? Find him, that is?"

"Remind yourself that he's Clint fucking Barton." Dan repeated the line with a smirk. "Keep yourself focused and do your damned job. Otherwise you're gonna drive yourself crazy and do something stupid."

Phil scowled at him, but didn't dispute the point.

Dan's expression softened.

"I know you're worried and fucking scared out of your mind. Barton is like a son to you, I get that. But you can't put blinders on, Phil. You're _needed_. So find a way. Think about something other than Barton…even though it goes against your nature."

"And how would you suggest I do that?"

Dan sat back in his chair and threaded his hands behind his head, lips quirking into a sly smirk.

"I hear your idol is on board. A fanboy couldn't ask for a better distraction."

Phil huffed a slight laugh. He had been meaning to ask if Captain Rogers would sign his trading cards. Dan nodded sharply.

"My job here is done," the doctor stated.

Phil stood and headed for the door. He paused before pulling it open, though, and looked back.

"Thanks."

"Hey, what are friends for if not to tell you to pull your head out of your ass?"

This time, Phil laughed outright.

* * *

Phil held onto that resolve all the way back to the bridge. He found Captain Rogers there, watching the hustle and bustle with a deeply contemplative look. Phil blew out a breath and started forward. Distraction – that was the name of the game now. Anything to keep him from thinking and worrying about Clint.

"Captain Rogers?"

The Captain turned to face him, nodding politely.

"Agent Coulson."

"I was wondering if...well, you see, I have these cards – trading cards, actually. They're a lot like baseball cards, only they don't have player stats because well, they're just you, not players. I mean, not _just_ you. _You_ are better to have than even the rarest of rookie cards."

Rogers was giving him an odd and slightly confused look so Phil hurried on, already feeling his neck redden in embarrassment for his ramblings.

"Anyway, I was wondering if you would…well, if you wouldn't mind signing them for me. My trading cards, that is," he finally managed to spit it out. And in coherent fashion even.

Rogers blinked, still looking a little overwhelmed. Phil wished a little bit that he hadn't started this conversation, but he hadn't thought of Clint in at least two minutes. That was something, at least, even if he did look completely foolish.

"I mean, if it's not too much trouble." He tried to tame his awed excitement now, keeping his tone more controlled.

Rogers blinked and seemed to finally catch up.

"No, no, it's fine," he agreed courteously.

Phil smiled, feeling a little giddy again.

"It's a vintage set. Took me a couple of years to collect them all." His plan to avoid thoughts of Clint backfired because he suddenly remembered with vivid clarity just who had gotten him _two_ of those cards. He forced himself to keep his tone light as he went on, "Near mint, slight foxing around the edges but-"

"We got a hit." Agent Sitwell's announcement cut him off and stole both his and Rogers' attention. "Sixty-seven percent match. Wait – cross-match, seventy-nine percent."

Phil stepped forward, eyes going to the screen. He fought back a wave of crushing disappointment when it was Loki's face they'd matched, not Clint's.

"Location?" he asked anyway, because he had to stay focused.

"Stuttgart, Germany. Twenty eight Königstraße." Sitwell glanced over his shoulder. "He's not exactly hiding."

Phil frowned, his instincts warning him that it was too easy. Loki just showing up out in the open didn't make sense. But at the same time, they couldn't just do nothing.

"Captain," Fury – who stood at his command center eyeing the monitors that displayed the carrier's global location – looked to Rogers, "you're up."

Phil watched Steve nod, his posture determined, and walk away.

"Hill, get Romanoff, send her with him."

Maria nodded curtly and keyed her communicator.

Then they waited…waited and watched.

All they could do until then was keep an eye on things and hope Loki didn't do anything drastic.

"What's his play here?" Fury muttered lowly, the words meant only for Phil's ears. "Why come out into the open? He has to know we'll move to confront him."

"Hard to get a read on him," Phil admitted as they both watched Loki move casually through the crowd. "What was your impression when you faced him?"

"Do you remember that guy you dealt with back in '96? In Dubai?" Fury offered as a response.

"Bhakta?"

Fury nodded.

"Loki reminded me of him, just with a magic spear."

Well that was…not at all reassuring. Bhakta had been a dangerous bastard and a bitch to take down. But he'd been a talker – much like Loki, according to Fury's report – and that overzealous bravado had given Phil's team the time it needed to get into place. He thought maybe _that_ was the comparison Fury was making.

"Delusions of grandeur?" Phil suggested. That tended to be the undoing of men like Loki. When the power you had wasn't enough, you reached for more…and the further you reached, the easier it was to knock you off balance.

The director nodded, eye pinned on the screen monitoring Loki.

"Something like that."

Then they fell silent, watching. After a while, Loki disappeared inside the building with the rest of the guests and waiting got harder.

"Wish we had eyes inside," Phil muttered mostly to himself.

"I might be able to fix that," Sitwell offered. "Looks like they've got private security and closed-circuit cameras. I can hack in." He looked to Fury as he finished, asking silent permission.

Fury nodded sharply and Sitwell bent over his computer.

Slow minutes crawled by and then all of the sudden Sitwell straightened.

"Got it. I'm in."

All at once, the screen started lighting up with different camera views. They silently searched for Loki.

It was Fury that saw him first.

"There, coming down the stairs."

Sitwell pulled up the best angle and they all watched Loki casually walk up behind a man giving a speech.

As none of them were sure what he had planned, they were all startled when Loki abruptly lashed out at the man before him. He flipped him onto a nearby structure and then unceremoniously jabbed a device into his eye.

That was when Phil put it together. It wasn't a pointless show of bravado. It was a specific mission.

"Where's Clint?"

The sidelong look Fury gave him was full of something close to pity.

"Phil…"

"No, not literally _where_ …but he's not there. Not with Loki." He turned and met Fury's gaze. "He has one of the most highly trained spies in the world at his disposal and he does this _himself_? He's here for a reason…and Clint's somewhere else _for a reason_." He gestured at the screen and the poor man Loki had just stabbed in the eye. "He's getting a retinal scan _for a reason._ "

Fury's gaze ignited with understanding.

"Get me an ID on that victim."

Sitwell started typing furiously, freeze framing a shot of the man's face and uploading it into their facial recognition system.

"Anything on Barton?" Fury directed at another tech.

"Still dark." Came the immediate response.

"He's out there." Phil insisted. "He's in the open, we just have to find him."

"That may be the case, Phil," Fury replied sharply. "But that goddamned kid could be walking through Times Square and he'd _still_ never turn up on a camera. He's a _ghost_. You taught him to disappear and he learned the lesson too damned well. I have no doubt that he is up to no good at this very moment, but we've got no way of _finding_ him."

"The victim is a scientist," Sitwell announced. "Heinrich Schäfer."

"Where does he work?" Fury demanded.

"Pulling up surveillance of his lab now."

* * *

Clint tossed the retinal hologram device to one of his men and wordlessly held his hand out to the one who held his bow. Once his weapon was back in his hands, he led the way through the door and into the lab.

He wasn't sure what to expect here. Labs like this could have anything from rent-a-cop security to ex-special forces. Given the magnitude of what he knew this lab housed, he was betting on the latter.

Sure enough, no more than five steps into the building and a pair of guards rounded a corner up ahead. Their posture and stride told Clint all he needed to know. Special Forces, undeniably.

He smirked darkly and stowed his bow even as he used his free hand to wave off the men behind him. He'd handle this on his own.

And he'd enjoy ever goddamned minute of it.

The two guards exchanged a surprised look and then started purposefully towards Clint. But he wasn't going to sit and wait for them. Instead, he strode right for them, picking up speed until he was nearly running when they finally met in the middle of the hallway.

Clint ducked under a right hook from the man on his left – Led – and shifted sideways to avoid a left jab from the man on his right – Zeppelin. Clint grinned to himself at the nicknames and struck out with a right cross. He clipped the outside of Zeppelin's chin and drove his boot into Led's thigh, deadening the muscle if only briefly. He shifted right as he ducked under Zeppelin's attempt at a left cross and contracted his torso, driving his left knee up into Zeppelin's ribs.

A kick from the recovered Led momentarily collapsed Clint's knee, but he went with it. He braced his downed knee on the tile and spun, kicking out Zeppelin's feet and sending him to the floor. Then Clint exploded up, spinning into an aerial kick that landed on Led's arm, brought up to defend his head.

A quick, three-move combination drove Led back into the wall and Clint spun to face Zeppelin.

He was met with a solid jab that briefly flashed his vision white.

Zeppelin grabbed two fistfuls of Clint's shirt and spun him hard into the wall. Clint felt his back crack the plaster and immediately ducked, narrowly avoiding Zeppelin's follow up left jab, which embedded in the plaster instead.

He struck out with a series of low hits to Zeppelin's ribs, which the man seemed to just absorb. An elbow snapped into the side of Clint's head, and then a knee rammed into his side ribs.

Clint pushed hard off the wall, driving his forearms into Zeppelin's chest and taking two fistfuls of the man's uniform for leverage. He drove his feet into the ground for a few steps, spinning Zeppelin as he went and then he used his grip on Zeppelin's uniform for support as he torqued his body up into the air, spreading his legs up just as Led charged towards them.

Led walked right into the trap and didn't have time to dodge before Clint's knees tightened around his neck and his ankles locked behind his head.

In a move he'd learned from Natasha, he walked his hands up Zeppelin's shoulders and folded his elbow around his neck, locking the man's head to Clint's shoulder.

Then, using every bit of abdominal strength he had, he twisted his torso towards the ground. The three of them hit the ground in a pile of limbs. He heard Zeppelin's neck snap next to his ear and felt the same give between his knees as Led's head twisted at the wrong angle.

Without wasting a breath, Clint kicked his way free and rolled to his feet.

He met his stunned team's gazes and motioned them forward.

"Fan out. Find the other guards. Keep them distracted while I go for the iridium."

He got a series of nods and 'yes, sir's in return.

He nodded sharply back.

"Let's move."

* * *

Phil's breath caught when he saw a familiar dark figure stalk out of the building with a small team of men following behind him.

"Jesus…" he knew that walk – that dark, angry, prowling stalk.

That was Clint. Clint when he was in full 'Hawkeye' mode.

"Do we have _anybody_ close?" Fury demanded.

Sitwell clicked away on his keyboard and then shook his head.

"No teams near enough to get there in time. Unless you want me to redirect Agent Romanoff. But even then, they may not get there in time."

For one long moment, Fury was silent and Phil found himself selfishly hoping Fury would send Natasha after Clint instead of Loki.

But then Fury gave him a sympathetic glance.

"I'm sorry, Phil." Even as he spoke, Clint disappeared off the last possible angle of the cameras.

He was gone. Again.

"Find out what was stored there and send the list to Banner and Stark," Fury ordered Sitwell calmly.

At Sitwell's nod, Fury turned his attention back to Loki and his demands for subservience.

Phil couldn't seem to focus, though, on anything but the image of Clint's SHIELD ID photo displayed on one of the screens.

Fury was right. The trace was useless. Clint was too good to ever get caught on camera again. The lab had been unavoidable, cameras covered every possible angle due to the value of the materials stored there. If they had a one in a million shot to find Clint with the trace, they'd just blown that _one_. They'd never find him that way again.

But they'd been so damn close. Clint had _been_ there – at the lab. Phil had _seen_ him. But he was gone now, in the wind _again_.

He stared at Clint's picture and felt something in his chest constrict painfully.

_Where are you?_

"Well, I'll be damned."

Fury's huffed statement drew his attention back to the matter at hand. His gaze went to the feed of Loki's battle with the team.

"They've got him." Fury added with a frown.

Sure enough, Loki was subdued. Phil frowned too. He'd hadn't been zoned out that long, had he? Had the battle really been that fast?

"In your experience, has it _ever_ been that easy?" Fury shot Phil a doubtful glance.

Phil shook his head. In Phil's experience, _easy_ usually meant the shit was headed towards the fan in a big way.

"Right." Fury sighed. "Get me Romanoff."

* * *

 _April 12, 2012_  
11:15 p.m. Local Time (5:15 pm NYT)  
_Quinjet, somewhere over Europe_

* * *

Natasha nodded, agreeing with Fury's assessment of the situation.

"I can't say I disagree," she admitted. "He practically rolled over and played dead at the first sign of trouble."

" _He say anything?"_

"Not a word." Which was about what she'd expected. It's what _she_ would have done if she were in Loki's place. Stay quiet, observe, learn your enemy's weakness.

" _Just get him here. We're low on time."_

Well, wasn't that quite the understatement. She bit back the urge to ask about the search for Clint. Now wasn't the time.

It turned out that Fury wasn't intending to _give_ her a chance to ask, because he disconnected the line before she had a chance to say anything at all.

Natasha sighed, tuning into Rogers and Stark's discussion about Loki's capitulation.

"I don't remember it being that easy. This guy packs a wallop," Steve was saying.

And only Rogers would use a word like 'wallop'. Natasha wished Clint were here. He'd have had a field day with that. Knowing him, he'd start using it in every day conversation just _because_.

Her throat tightened at the thought.

"Still, you were pretty spry, for an older fellow. What's your thing? Pilates?" Stark replied flippantly.

 _God_ , could Stark take _nothing_ seriously? It was like a bad flashback to her time dealing with him as Natalie Rushman.

"What?" Rogers didn't sound so much _confused_ as _annoyed_. Natasha could understand the sentiment. Stark tended to have that effect.

Her attention was drawn away from Stark's response when she noticed the clouds swirling oddly in the sky. The night had been pretty much clear just seconds ago. The cloud cover had come out of nowhere. The flash of lightening and subsequent thunder just added to her confused wariness.

"Where's this coming from?" she wondered aloud, leaning forward to get a better view of the sky.

"What's the matter?" Rogers asked, but not to her. She glanced back to see him looking at Loki. "Scared of a little lightening?"

Loki grimaced an odd little smile.

"I'm not overly fond of what follows."

Something in Natasha's memory pricked. Clint telling her about a mythical god named Thor who'd ended up being able to control lightening. She looked back at Loki.

It couldn't…

The force that slammed into the top of the jet brought her attention swiftly back to the controls as she added her own skills to help the pilot keep them level. Even as she did, her eyes rose to the roof, wondering what the _hell_ that had been.

Not wanting to stick around to find out, she nodded at the pilot to keep going even as Rogers and Stark started moving around and heading towards the back of the jet.

She barely held back a very loud, very Russian curse when Stark lowered the ramp.

"What are you doing?" Rogers yelled.

No sooner had he gotten the words out than a large, armor-clad blonde landed on the ramp. He knocked Stark into Rogers like neither of them were anything but a nuisance, grabbed Loki, and was gone again.

What the _hell_ was going on?

"Now there's that guy." Stark grunted as he stood.

"Another Asgardian?" It wasn't really a question. All it had taken was a glance at the blonde hair and fancy armor and she knew who they were dealing with. Clint's description had been _very_ detailed.

"That guy's a friendly?" Rogers postulated.

She supposed it made sense. Thor _had_ grabbed Loki and looked pissed as he did. But they didn't have time for the Asgardian prince to dole out his own kind of justice. They needed Loki.

Apparently Stark agreed.

"Doesn't matter," Iron Man insisted. "If he frees Loki, or kills him, the tesseract is lost."

And so was Clint. Maybe Loki being dead freed him from whatever mind fuck he was in, but maybe it didn't. It wasn't a risk she was willing to take.

Stark, apparently, felt the same, because he started down the ramp.

"Stark, we need a plan of attack!" Rogers called, ever the team player.

"I have a plan. Attack!" Stark replied, ever the one-man show.

Natasha gritted her teeth as Stark disappeared off the ramp and Rogers moved for a parachute. What did he expect to do? Gently coast to the ground and politely ask for Loki back?

"I'd sit this one out, Cap." Because super-soldier or not, he couldn't fly and it appeared the major players in this fight _could_.

"I don't see how I can."

It sounded like something Clint would say – no, not _say_. Clint wouldn't have even bothered replying, he'd have just given her a look and _gone_. He'd never given much attention to someone telling him to stay out of a fight either.

"These guys come from legend. They're basically gods," she explained as she adjusted flight controls so their pilot could focus on _flying_. Rogers at least needed to know what he was getting into.

"There's only one God, ma'am." Did he just _ma'am_ her _again_? "And I'm pretty sure he doesn't dress like that." Then _Rogers_ was gone too and she was left alone with the pilot.

"Men," she muttered under her breath.

The pilot shot her a vaguely offended glance and she shrugged unapologetically.

She muttered a few choice words in her mother tongue just for her own sake and then keyed her radio. "Overwatch, you out there?"

It only took a moment before Phil's voice rang through the line.

" _Everything okay?"_ Trust Phil to have worry be his first reaction to an unscheduled call in. It brought a warmth that had stopped being foreign years ago. She motioned for the pilot to turn the jet back towards the direction all the idiots had gone. He obeyed and then switched into hover mode, waiting.

"Well, I'm currently co-piloting an empty jet."

There was a beat of silence.

" _Come again?"_

She blew out an annoyed breath. They didn't have time for this shit. _Clint_ didn't have time.

"Thor showed up and snatched Loki."

" _Thor?!"_

She sighed, closing her eyes and squeezing the bridge of her nose.

"Yeah."

Because one god in their midst just wasn't enough.

She heard Phil speaking to someone else, probably Fury.

" _Stark and Rogers?"_

"What do you think?" she shot back.

Phil sighed.

" _We don't have time for this."_

He was preaching to the damn choir.

"I could always just shoot them and bring Loki in myself." She was really only half kidding at this point.

" _You can't shoot them."_ Phil's matter-of-fact response was expected, but the dry humor laced into the words brought a small grin to her face.

"Not even just a little?"

Phil chuckled now.

" _Not enjoying your reunion with Stark?"_

She let her icy silence be answer enough for that.

" _We need them, Natasha…._ _ **all**_ _of them."_

She sighed.

"We need Clint." It was out before she could stop it. And the pained intake of breath she heard from Phil had her wishing she could take it back, even if it hadn't caused a stabbing pain in her own chest.

But it was _true_. Clint had a way about him, even though he didn't seem to realize it. He'd be able to match sarcastic wits with Stark _easily_ – and perhaps keep him out of Roger's hair. Which, in all honestly, was the biggest of their supposed "team" issues right now. You couldn't put two personalities like Stark and Rogers together without a buffer and expect anything other than fireworks.

" _I saw him."_

The confession caught her off guard and stole her breath.

" _He's alive."_

"Where? When?" she demanded rapidly, feeling adrenaline flood her system. She'd leave all the idiot men to camp in the woods if she had a shot at getting to Clint.

" _It doesn't matter, he's not there anymore. He made a move for something in a lab while you guys were tangling with Loki."_

Anger flashed through her. Nobody had told her, probably on purpose, and any chance she'd had at catching up to him was now gone before she'd even known it was there.

It wasn't fair. She shouldn't have to choose between her job and the one man that meant _everything_ to her.

" _I know."_ Phil seemed to read her mind. _"But we'll find him again."_

The assurance, for some reason, made her eyes burn. She blinked the feeling away, mentally cursing Clint for being the one thing that always brought down her hard-won, steel-enforced walls.

"I should go." Because she needed to think about something other than Clint if she was going to keep it together, and talking to Phil pretty much made that impossible.

Phil was quiet for a moment, and when he spoke his tone was one of complete understanding.

" _I'll see you when you get back."_

He got it. Phil _always_ got it, no matter what 'it' was. It was one of the many, many traits that made him one of the few that could deal with the man of few emotional words, Clint Barton.

"Copy that," she replied quietly.

Then she disconnected the line and scanned the trees, looking for a sign of where the others were.

The blast of light and a tree-leveling explosion served as quite the beacon.

The pilot looked to her for guidance and she nodded. Wordlessly telling him to head for the small area of fresh devastation.

She shook her head in annoyed disbelief.

_Men._

* * *

_April 12, 2012_  
11:25 p.m. Local Time (5:25 pm NYT)  
_Helicarrier Bridge, somewhere over France_

* * *

Phil switched off his connection with Natasha, sighing deeply as his eyes settled on the picture of Clint once again. The face-trace continued to run. Useless or not, there was always a 'just in case' hanging over their heads. But the longer he watched the trace run, the harder it became to look at the picture.

Clint was out there, _somewhere_ , waiting for Phil to find him – even if only subconsciously. Phil had promised him, years ago, that he'd always come for him. He'd never leave Clint to disappear into the shadows. He'd never leave him to die alone.

But somewhere, deep in his gut, he knew that _this_ time…he would. He knew his best wasn't going to be good enough. This time he wouldn't be the one to save Clint. He didn't know how he knew, he just _knew_. Something was brewing. With Loki nearly on board, things were about to start happening. One way or another, everything in this game was about to change.

Phil stood abruptly and headed for the exit.

He had to get out of here. He had to find a place to _breathe._

"Coulson?" He ignored Maria's call, determined steps taking him off the bridge and towards the residence halls.

He made it to his room with little disruption. Something in his expression seeming to reduce everyone he met to monosyllabic acknowledgments.

With the door finally closed behind him, he let out a deep breath and moved over to his bed. He sat heavily and just stared at the wall for a long moment. Without even realizing what he was doing, he pulled open the drawer on his small, built in bedside table.

He had the leather, composition-sized book in his hand a moment later. The leather had been worn already when Clint had given it to him, almost two years ago now, and it had only grown more worn since. Clint had given him this book, their history book, in the wake of the attack on the New York SHIELD base as ordered by former Council Member, Matthew Williams. It had been an act of revenge, mercenaries sent to kill Clint, Phil, Natasha, and anyone who got in their way.

Phil had nearly died, Clint had barely coped. This book had been his way to process what nearly losing Phil had meant to him, how it had affected him. Phil flipped through it often, usually when Clint was away on a mission, and had even added to it.

He opened to the first page, the title page.

"Greatest Hits"

He clenched his jaw, lightly rubbing his thumb across the scrawling words, the black sharpie just as crisp and clear as the day the book had been given to him.

He flipped through the pages slowly, taking in each one, remembering each moment in time, forever immortalized by Clint's almost purposefully sloppy handwriting. Phil never could understand how he could write in nearly perfect all-caps print one moment and then switch over to a barely legible chicken scratch that Phil only understood from years of exposure.

Maybe that was the point though. Phil was one of the very few that could read it.

He stopped on the page dedicated to Croatia, closing his eyes. He could see it, as clearly as if it had happened yesterday, the vision of Clint stepping to the left only to jerk back a step and go limp. He could still smell the blood, feel it coating his hands.

He opened his eyes again, reading the caption.

" _The day Clint and Phil realized what it meant to be brothers."_

Brothers. It didn't seem accurate anymore, or at least it didn't seem to be _enough_. It had started that way, back in the beginning. They'd forged a brotherhood through blood and fire. But time had changed that, had made it evolve. They _were_ brothers, always would be…but damn it, Phil felt more like a father than a brother. He _was_ more a father than a brother and had been for a long time.

And fathers weren't supposed to outlive their children.

His breath caught in his throat, that morbid thought causing his chest to clench so tightly he couldn't breathe. He slid off the edge of his bed, collapsing onto his folded legs as he unconsciously held the book to his chest with one hand and gripped the edge of the bedside table for support with the other.

The emotion flooded through him as quickly and brutally as a tidal wave, forcing its way free and leaving his face wet and his lungs aching.

It wasn't supposed to happen like this. This was monsters and magic. It was nothing they could have ever prepared for, nothing they could have trained for. But it was here and it had taken Clint as a prisoner of war.

War.

Maybe that's what made this so much worse. It wasn't like Clint hadn't been captured before. Hell, the damn kid tended to get himself in that type of situation more than most – except maybe Natasha, but then she usually did it on purpose.

But this was a _war_.

A war between gods and super humans and geniuses in flying iron suits.

How was a guy like Clint – who, at the end of the day, was just a normal man – supposed to survive being caught in the middle?

Out of nowhere a memory flooded his mind.

" _I don't think I can do this anymore."_

Clint had never sounded so defeated than he had in that moment in Cairo. He'd sounded like he'd failed, like he was a failure and he'd sounded so goddamned ashamed of that.

But Clint wasn't a failure, was the furthest from that you could get.

Phil looked down at the book in his hands, remembering his own response to Clint's whispered confession.

" _Yes, you can. Listen up, because I'm only going to say this once. You are Clint fucking Barton…"_

Clint fucking Barton.

Strong as steel, tough as nails. Those were the phrases used to describe the archer by those that knew him.

_Strong._

How many times over the years had he told Clint he was strong? Phil had lost count. It was a point that Clint could never seem to grasp because in his own eyes he'd always been weak. But Phil's definition of weak had always been different than Clint's. And what Clint saw as weakness, Phil saw as something else entirely.

Clint looked back on his days as a contract assassin and saw a teenager too weak to make a better choice. Phil saw a kid who somehow kept pieces of his soul intact even while living in nothing but darkness, who was strong enough to find a way to _survive_.

But that's what Clint did. He survived. He always survived, even when he didn't want to.

Phil clenched his jaw and tightened his grip on the book.

Clint would survive this.

Phil was suddenly surer of that than anything else in the world.

Clint _would_ survive. He was too strong to do anything else.

Phil looked back down at the book in his hand, thumbing the pages until he found the one dedicated to Cairo. That mission had tested Clint's strength in a way no other mission ever had. And his agent had come out of it stronger in so many ways.

Phil traced his fingers over the scribbled inscription, there was no picture with this entry, the page held nothing but words and even those…were simple.

" _Phil came anyway."_

He still remembered that moment. Standing there in the middle of the safe house pointing a loaded gun at an intruder he thought was nothing more than a homeless vagrant. He remembered the exact moment when he realized the intruder was _Clint_. He remembered the weight in his arms as he caught the archer when he collapsed. Clint's whispered words had been burned in his memory from that moment on.

" _I was dead…and you came anyway."_

That had been the first of many defining moments for them. It had been the moment Clint had truly realized Phil would never abandon him, that he would always come even if all hope was lost. That he could count on Phil in a way he'd never counted on anyone else.

But that moment had been something different to Phil. It had been the end of a nightmare. Clint had been dead. There had been an autopsy report – a falsified one, he'd learned – to prove it. Clint had been _dead_ and Phil's world had stopped spinning.

What happened after the attack on the New York base had proven, without a shadow of a doubt, that Clint's world hinged just as precariously on Phil's survival as _his_ did on Clint's.

Phil stood abruptly, moving over to his desk. He opened his laptop and dug into the desk drawer for a blank DVD. He slid it into the disc drive and selected the program that would let him record through the laptop's camera.

Clint would survive this. Phil knew that without a doubt, he couldn't accept anything less. But Phil had no such guarantee.

Because this _was_ a war.

If the worst happened, he needed to know that his last words to Clint weren't an order to 'go find a perch', but were something real, something that truly reflected what Clint meant to him.

He needed to know that his promise to Clint would hold true, even if he wasn't here to keep it. He needed to know, and for Clint to know, that he would never abandon him. That he would always come.

He took a breath and looked into the laptop webcam.

He hit record.

"Hey kid...at the risk of sounding cliché, if you're watching this, then I'm dead." It was a blunt statement, but if Clint was watching this then it was something he already knew. "I decided to record this after you were taken by Loki, just because…well, I didn't want the last thing I ever said to you to be some order on a mission. You being my agent…that was always secondary. You were always more than that to me and I hope to hell I've made that clear to you over the years.

"I'm leaving this with Dan, with instructions to send it to you when he thought you might need it. When he thought you'd actually be ready to see it, which I'm guessing probably won't be for a while. And that's okay…because I know, that if I'm gone…" Phil cleared his throat, not wanting to dwell on the devastation he _knew_ his death would do to Clint. "I know it's hard and I know it hurts, even more so if it had something to do with Loki. I know how your mind works, Clint. I knew the moment he took you that you would carry whatever happened on your shoulders. I know that it won't matter to you that he didn't give you a choice. I know that you're sitting there, blaming yourself for everything that happened."

Phil lifted his chin and hardened his tone.

"This is me, telling you to knock it the hell off."

He hoped throwing his own words from Croatia back at him, would at least draw a smile when Clint watched this.

"If I couldn't get away with it then neither can you. Loki was wielding a power none of us could possibly understand. What he did to you, what he _stole_ from you…it wasn't his to take. You _cannot_ blame yourself for _anything_ that happened as a result. So stop beating yourself up over it.

"I chose this life, to be in this fight. I knew the risks and I knew that one day my card would be up. I know that doesn't make it any easier, but maybe it makes it clearer. This isn't on you. It was _my_ choice."

Phil took a breath and looked away briefly and when he spoke again, all the sternness was gone from his tone.

"I know it's hard for you to lay down your burdens. You've never been good at letting yourself off the hook. But I'm telling you right now, to _forgive_ yourself, kid…for all of it. For what happened to me, for Loki, for everything that came before. You promised me, that day in the hospital after the base attack, that you would keep moving forward. You sure as hell better keep that promise.

"That being said, you sure as hell better be fighting with the Avengers. You _belong_ with them. Yours was the first name on the damn list for a _reason_ and if you aren't among them then they aren't complete. You _are_ and have always been as much of a hero as Stark, Rogers, Thor and Banner…maybe you're even _more_ of one because you and Natasha are so painfully and beautifully human.

"It's never been the ones with super powers that make the best heroes. They have an obligation, a duty, to use their powers for good. It's the people like you and Natasha, the _ordinary_ ones, that don't have to fight, but choose to anyway. You're the ones that are the real heroes in my book," he paused for a moment and then smirked, "My Captain America obsession notwithstanding."

The light moment faded and he sighed, looking down at the book he had resting in his lap. The memories flooded through him and he knew he wasn't able to keep that off his expression when he looked back up.

"I know it's hard for you to let people in. I know I promised you that I would always have your back. So I'm sorry. I let you down." His voice broke there and he had to swallow. "I know I was supposed to be the one that never did that. I hope that you can forgive me. _But_ – and I need you to hear me on this – even though I'm gone, you are _not_ alone. Don't ever make the mistake of believing you are. You have a beautiful, strong woman who _loves you_. And I _know_ , love is for children, but kid, what you two have is the real deal. If it's not love, then it's something a hell of a lot stronger. She would walk through fire _for_ you and _with_ you. So let her.

"But beyond that, you've got a team now. A team filled with extraordinary men. I promised you nine years ago that you would never be alone again and I meant it. Let them in, kid…they'll surprise you.

"I'll leave you with this. Don't hide. Don't be afraid of what you could become. You are capable of a greatness you cannot even fathom. All you have to do is embrace it."

Phil took one final breath and felt moisture build in his eyes. This was going to be the hardest part.

"Always remember that for these nine years you have been _everything_ to me." His eyes burned and his throat tightened. "Goodbye, kid."

He all but slammed the laptop closed, forcing himself to take a deep breath and let it out slowly. He'd allowed himself one emotional breakdown already, there wasn't time for a second one.

But God _damn_ it.

Saying goodbye to Clint was one of the hardest things he would ever have to do. He ejected the DVD and slid it into an envelope. Then he grabbed a piece of paper, wrote a hasty, but detailed note and slid it in with the DVD. He'd drop it off with Dan on his way back to the bridge.

Maybe this wouldn't be necessary. He hoped to hell it wasn't. But if the worst happened, he was relieved to know he'd kept the promise he'd made to himself and to Clint.

He'd said what needed to be said. Words he hoped would _help_ Clint move past the devastation. Words he hoped would make Clint's world start spinning again like Clint's words in Cairo had done for him.

* * *

_End of Chapter 5_

_So first of all, I'll say it once more. I recognize that the video from Phil is a bit more involved in this than it original was in Vantage Point. As i said up top, Vantage Point is in the process of being rewritten and the new video will be reflected in that rewrite. Hope you guys don't mind the slight inconsistency, but these things happen when you write a stand alone story that unexpectedly developed into an entire Universe._

_Hit me up with a review, let me know how you're liking it ;)_

_Same time, same place, tomorrow. Until then...preview_

* * *

_Seeing the beloved device, this tangible piece of him, holding it in her hand…it was her undoing. She clenched her hand around the iPod and buried her face in the pillow._

_Then she just let it all go, just this once, with no one to bear witness to the moment of weakness._


	6. We'll Walk This Road Together

_Disclaimer: I do not own "The Avengers" or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works. I do not claim any of the directly quoted lines from "The Avengers" as my own, they belong to Marvel and the writers._ _The cover art came from a google search with the original source being pinterest where it was credited to Anthony Genuardi._

 _Author's Note: While I embrace_ **_constructive_ ** _criticism, remember this old saying if you choose to leave a review "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all"_

* * *

 _Special thanks to all who reviewed Chapter Five:_ **Firali, Evenstar129, TheSpoiledDuchess1, GoldOwl89, Isi7140, RoS13, thiswilldrivemecrazy, beargirl1393, RandominatorOwl**

 _Continued thanks to my wonderful betas_ **Kylen** _and_ **JRBarton** _for their amazingness._

_Onward!_

* * *

_Last time in The Untold Stories:_

_He'd said what needed to be said. Words he hoped would help Clint move past the devastation. Words he hoped would make Clint's world start spinning again like Clint's words in Cairo had done for him._

* * *

_He is a weapon, a killer. Do not forget it. You can use a spear as a walking stick, but that will not change its nature._  
**_Madeline Miller_ **

* * *

_April 13, 2012 (April 12, 2012 NYC)_  
12:15 a.m. Local Time (6:15 pm NYC)  
_Helicarrier deck_

* * *

Natasha breathed out a sigh to encompass the relief that filled her as the jet finally taxied to a stop in the appropriate docking station on the Helicarrier deck. Even as the ramp lowered, she was moving swiftly and efficiently through her co-pilot post-flight responsibilities. The flight log – arguably one of her least favorite things about piloting because honestly, the damn things had GPS and SHIELD knew exactly where their jet had been the entire time they were gone – was shoved at the pilot and then she was standing from her seat and heading towards the ramp.

The men had already shuffled Loki off the jet – Thor on one side, Cap on the other and Stark leading the way. Phil, Fury and a tac-team's worth of armed agents had arrived to meet them. But by the time she made it to the group, Fury was leading Cap, Thor and Loki away, the tac-team forming a tight circle around them. Stark was wandering off on his own, no doubt to find a place to shed his armor. Phil turned to her and smiled wearily in greeting.

For a long moment they just stared at each other, each reading what they could from the other. In the end, they were both worried and doing their best to keep moving forward. It was the best that could be expected from either of them, she supposed.

Finally, Phil nodded in the direction of the door that would take them inside. She fell into step with him and wasn't all that surprised that when he spoke, his words were bleeding sincerity.

"How are you?"

"I'm fine." It was an automatic, instinctive reply. It was one that she had grown to treat as a blaring siren of warning when Clint was the one saying it. 'I'm fine' coming from him usually meant the opposite was most assuredly true. He would say he was 'fine' while secretly harboring a nasty, heavily bleeding knife wound he would then try to treat himself – she'd learned that specific lesson in Brazil on their first mission together. He would say he was 'fine' when he was internally torturing himself over something _he_ deemed as a personal failure. He would say he was 'fine' when he was trying to convince _himself_ of that fact even when all evidence pointed to the opposite.

She'd learned never to believe him when he claimed to be 'fine.' Because whether he was lying intentionally, or honestly thought he _was_ , or was saying it because he couldn't afford _not to be_ , 'fine' never meant anything good with him.

Unsurprisingly, Phil had learned that lesson too.

"You know, whenever Clint says that to me, it's how I know everything is about to go to hell." He cast her a sidelong look. "I've come to learn the same applies to you in most circumstances."

She paused, her lack of motion causing Phil to stop too and turn to face her. She met his gaze seriously.

"I'm fine," she stated again, more convincingly this time, but then belied it by adding more quietly, "I have to be."

Phil's gaze softened in understanding. Now wasn't the time for heartfelt confessions or putting voice to all of their growing concerns for their missing archer. Maybe there would be time later, maybe there wouldn't. But there wasn't time _now_.

"Then I'm fine, too."

They were a couple of liars, the both of them.

"I saw Stark wander off." She needed to refocus. To stay zeroed in on her target, which at the moment was figuring out Loki's angle and keeping the combustible personalities that were now on board from _combusting_. "I give him less than 10 minutes before he's hacking the system."

Phil watched her closely for a long moment. He was so used to diversionary tactics from Clint, that she knew she'd had little hope of getting it past him. He allowed it though.

"I'll find Stark. The Director is going to have a talk with our newest carrier guest. You can watch from the main conference area."

The assassin and spy part of her – which was, in all honesty, the biggest part of who she was – wanted to hear that talk, wanted to analyze the shit out of it and figure out how to take Loki apart. But the part of her that couldn't seem to _avoid_ thinking about her missing partner – like that term could _ever_ really describe what Clint was to her – for more than a few minutes at a time wanted to go hit something.

The assassin and spy part won out. Loki knew where Clint was. She didn't want to miss a word the bastard uttered.

"Get a read on him." Phil surprised her by going on. "We may need use of your interrogation skills."

She arched an eyebrow, wondering what Hill had had to say about that suggestion. She tended to frown on Natasha and Clint's less-than-professional partnership. She could almost hear the Deputy Director now,

" _Given the nature of Agent Romanoff and Agent Barton's 'partnership', are we sure she's in the best state of mind to conduct an interrogation of the prisoner?"_

Natasha respected Hill, she did – her sometimes too-lingering looks at Clint when he was strutting around with bare biceps and sometimes barer abs notwithstanding. The woman was as professional as the day was long and she had a cool, level head on her shoulders. She called a spade a spade – not unlike Clint in that respect – and she made an excellent member of the chain of command.

But she'd also never had a problem playing devil's advocate. And while Natasha could also respect _that_ most of the time, when it came to questioning _her_ skills or that of her time-proven partner, she was less than impressed. And Hill tended to question them both… _often._

It was her job, though, so despite it all, Natasha usually let it go. It helped that the woman also took no issue with questioning Fury himself.

Phil was waiting for a response, so she nodded. He gave her one last long, searching look and then reached to squeeze her shoulder. She didn't know if it was the action itself, or if Phil could just squeeze shoulders better than anyone else in the world, but she felt inexplicably better, more centered, more focused. He'd leveled her axis – thrown into disarray with three words 'Barton's been compromised' – in a way that she hadn't been able to manage on her own.

She granted him a slight quirk of her lips and a sincere look of thanks and then they parted ways – him to search out the wayward billionaire who tended to be a permanent thorn in SHIELD's collective side, and her into the bowels of the carrier, aiming for the main conference area.

* * *

 _April 13, 2012 (April 12, 2012 NYC)_  
12:40 a.m. (6:40 pm NYC)  
_Helicarrier main conference area_

* * *

Natasha sat quietly and listened to the others discuss Loki and theorize about his plans. Loki's bravado was going to be her ticket in. He liked to talk and he liked to talk _big_. She'd dealt with marks like him before. They liked to feel powerful, and to lord that power over anyone and everyone.

She'd just have to give Loki an opportunity to feel like he had some sort of power over her.

It shouldn't be hard.

If his little magic stick was as powerful as it seemed to be – and with it being able to take control of someone as stubborn and strong as Clint it _had_ to be pretty powerful – she didn't doubt that he'd used it to gain information on all of them.

He'd already proven he knew about Banner and he'd known about Steve back in Stuttgart. It was wise, now, to assume he knew about all of them.

Which meant he probably knew what Clint was to her and what she was to him.

He'd use that knowledge as a weapon, she'd have to do the same.

"Selvig?"

Thor's confused concern drew her attention. Banner mistook the confusion for lack of knowledge.

"He's an astrophysicist."

"He's a friend," Thor corrected firmly, fresh worry in his eyes.

She supposed nobody had been given a chance to fill him in.

"Loki has them under some kind of spell," she offered by way of explanation. "Along with one of ours," she added more quietly.

"I wanna know why Loki let us take him," Rogers asserted curiously. "He's not leading an army from here."

The Captain had a point. It was something Natasha had been puzzling over ever since Stuttgart. Either Loki was incredibly smart and this was all part of some elaborate plan – which would be her guess – or he was incredibly stupid.

"I don't think we should be focusing on Loki. That guy's brain is a bag full of cats. You can smell crazy on him."

Natasha resisted the urge to sigh. Banner wasn't looking beyond the surface – beyond the 'crazy'. Plenty of crazy men had caused more than their fair share of destruction and chaos.

"Have care how you speak. Loki is beyond reason, but he is of Asgard, and he is my brother."

Natasha fixed the god with an arched eyebrow look.

"He's killed eighty people in two days."

Thor's expression turned rueful and he shrugged slightly.

"He's adopted?"

Natasha was beyond appreciating the humor.

Banner was the one that got them back on track.

"I think it's about the mechanics." He shifted, hands fiddling together restlessly. "Iridium, what do they need iridium for?"

"It's a stabilizing agent." Stark's arrival, alongside Phil, drew all their attention. He leaned closer to Phil and continued in a conspiratorial whisper, "I'm saying, take a weekend. I'll fly you to Portland." Phil studiously ignored him and moved away even as Stark added a little louder, "Keep love alive."

Natasha shook her head slightly as Phil peeled away from Stark and came to stand near her. She met his eyes and he gave her a slight nod. Apparently talk of his 'cellist' in 'Portland' hadn't ruffled his feathers too badly.

She wasn't all that surprised that Stark knew about Celine. Pepper knew, and Stark knowing was a logical progression from that. She also wasn't surprised he only knew the civilian cover for Phil's former girlfriend, who happened to be the base director of the Paris SHIELD compound. They'd met years ago on the exact mission in Paris where Natasha had ultimately met Clint. She wasn't exactly clear on _when_ Phil and Celine had started something up, but they had. And apparently, Pepper Potts had stumbled on the two of them having lunch one day while Celine was visiting the city. All curious and sweet, Potts wasn't someone you could easily dissuade once she gained interest. Phil had finally put the questions to rest by claiming Celine was a 'cellist' from 'Portland' who traveled often so 'no' Pepper wouldn't likely be seeing more of her.

Clint had found great amusement in the whole thing when Phil had filled them in later.

Clint had been less amused when Phil and Celine had eventually called it quits. Distance was where the blame had fallen, but Natasha hadn't bought it. Neither had Clint. The look in Phil's eyes when he told them, and the hooded glance he slipped towards Clint while he explained had told them everything they needed to know.

Celine didn't like coming in second. And Phil had always made it abundantly clear that Clint would always be his number one priority.

Clint had taken it pretty hard, had even talked about going to Paris to 'set the bitch straight' – he'd been pretty angry on Phil's behalf at the time – but Natasha had talked him out of it. in his current state, he'd likely have made it worse.

He _had_ tried to talk to Phil though. He hadn't given her a chance to talk him out of that one. She didn't know what had been said behind those closed doors, but Clint had been fairly annoyed with Phil for a few days following, so she guessed it hadn't gone the way the archer had hoped.

"…And I'm a huge fan of the way you lose control and turn into an enormous green rage monster."

Natasha rolled her eyes. Clint would get a kick out of Stark. They both shared a tendency towards inappropriate humor. With Clint, she tolerated it, found it endearing even. Stark, well…wasn't Clint.

Banner apparently didn't know how to respond.

"…Thanks."

Fury blew in then, with all the subtly of a freight train.

"Doctor Banner is only here to track the cube. I was hoping you might join him."

Natasha narrowed her gaze. Fury was awfully adamant about Banner only being here for scientific purposes, considering he had a Hulk-sized cell on board. And she'd never known Fury to lay all his cards on the table from the get go.

No one else seemed as suspicious though, at least not Rogers, who appeared to hand out trust like it was candy. But compared to someone like her, she supposed most people appeared that way.

"I'd start with that stick of his. It may be magical but it works an awful lot like a Hydra weapon," Rogers suggested.

"I don't know about that, but it _is_ powered by the cube. And I'd like to know how Loki used it to turn two of the sharpest men I know into his personal flying monkeys," Fury replied.

Natasha barely held back a flinch. She hadn't been ready for that, for Fury to bring up Clint's current state so bluntly.

"Monkeys?" Thor frowned. "I do not understand…"

"I do!" Rogers snapped and pointed at Fury. Everyone stared at him for the enthusiastic interruption. Rogers sat back, looking suddenly sheepish. "I…I understood that reference."

Natasha bit back a grin. She supposed if _she_ had spent 70 years in what equated to hibernation, she'd feel triumphant for understanding culture references as well. Though, she supposed she'd felt about the same when she'd finally started to be able to distinguish an American idiom from a literal statement.

"Shall we play, Doctor?" Stark blew past the awkward silence and refocused on his new playmate.

"This way, sir." Banner played along and together the two left the bridge.

Natasha glanced around, watching Rogers stand and move to investigate one of the many computers on the bridge. He was obviously still intrigued by all the technological advances since his time. Who could blame him?

Thor had shifted, quietly asking a tech to show him Loki once again, and now stood in silent contemplation as he studied his betraying brother.

Natasha frowned, recognizing the expression in Thor's eyes. She'd seen it before after all, every time Clint talked about his _own_ betraying brother.

She glanced at Phil, wondering if he'd drawn the same correlation, but her handler was deep in conversation with Fury and Hill.

Natasha blew out a breath, a wave of frustration rolling through her. There was nothing to do but wait. They'd send her to talk to Loki eventually, but not yet. Not so close on the heels of his talk with Fury. They'd want to let him stew. Then they'd probably want to try the easy way by sending in Thor first.

Normally she was a very patient person; one had to be when you spent so much time with someone like Clint Barton. Clint embodied controlled energy. He was almost constantly moving. It was a balance, she supposed, for when his job as a sniper required him to be absolutely still for hours at a time. His body made up for it by constantly expending energy throughout the day. It was never something simple like tapping a pen during a brief. No, that would have been far too normal.

It was always something ridiculous, like the blue rubber ball. He'd had the damn thing for as long as she could remember. It made appearances on the rare times he got to a briefing or debriefing early. He'd got her in the forehead once and though he'd claimed it was an accident, she knew with certainty that Clint Barton _never_ hit anywhere but where he aimed.

That and his poorly hidden little smirk had been equivalent to an admission to guilt in her book.

The memory of that day and of that smirk made her chest tighten. It brought to mind more memories, of other days and other smirks. And memories of those rare, real, honest-to-God smiles that made it impossible to do anything but smile back. And that special smile, crafted just for her that could turn her to putty in his hands. That expression he would get when he saw her for the first time after a long mission – a look of want, no _need,_ and absolute longing – that invariably had them both heading to whoever's quarters were closer…or whatever empty room they could find first.

And then there was the way he said her name, different ways for different moments, but always with the same weight of _something_ real and tangible. When they were alone, lost in a tangle of sheets and sweat and he gasped it like her name was water and he was dying of thirst.

In the quiet moments after when he said it like a whispered prayer.

" _Natasha."_

She stood abruptly and headed for the exit.

She ignored Phil's worried call after her and just kept moving. No one tried to stop her, which was just as well. She wasn't sure what she would do if someone had dared to slow her down.

She hadn't really decided where she was going, just _away_ , but wasn't entirely surprised when she looked up and Clint's door was looking back at her. She stared at the markings on it.

_R-207_

Residence Hall 2, Room 7.

It had been Clint's since the day he'd been officially transferred to the Helicarrier after the attack on the New York base put it out of commission as anything but a training ground for several months.

It was a familiar number, one she'd seen countless times before as she came to or went from Clint's room. She clenched her jaw and placed her hand on the small scanner next to the door. A moment later the screen flashed green and her name lit up the panel.

Clint had paid a tech to hack the lock system two days after he'd been assigned this room to have Natasha's handprint coded to unlock the door as well. Apparently getting up to let her in was just too much of a strain. It had taken her less than 48 hours of having unrestricted access to his room for her to buy him the same access to hers. She was fairly certain Clint had granted Phil the same honor, but he'd never used it when she was around…probably actually _because_ she'd been around.

It had only taken Phil walking in on them _once_ , way back when he'd first found out about them, for him to start knocking _anytime_ they even _might_ have been together.

She sighed and quietly pushed her way inside. Then she turned, closing the door without looking into the room. She leaned forward, resting her forehead on the cool metal.

She debated with herself now, as to what she wanted to do. She could go right back out the door, pretend this hadn't happened and continue to soldier on as the Black Widow was expected to. There was no place for emotion in the spy game, no place for worry or fear. There was just the mission. There was no room for Natasha Romanoff, there was only the Black Widow.

It was appealing. It meant she could go on ignoring everything she was trying not to feel right now.

But Clint had told her once, years ago now, that emotion was _part_ of the job, not independent of it. He hadn't meant that a spy – or assassin as was more often the case with him – should wear their emotions on their sleeve. He kept his own feelings just as closely guarded as she did. He'd meant that they were _supposed_ to feel, to have regrets, to have hope. They weren't robots, even if in the moment, in the midst of a hard kill, it seemed like they were.

So that left her with the other option.

She could turn around. She could see everything about this room that made it _Clint's_ and she could take a minute to _embrace_ her emotions instead of fighting them.

In the end, she figured even the Black Widow could let go of the reins once and a while…and besides, she'd never been the Black Widow when she was in this room. She'd always just been Natasha.

So she turned, but instead of looking around, moved directly over to the small, built-in dresser. She leaned over and pulled open the bottom drawer, hands curling around the soft, worn fabric of his old gray ARMY hoodie.

She brought the sweatshirt to her face, inhaling deeply. It smelled so strongly of Clint it made her eyes sting and her throat tighten – leather, gunpowder and sweat with an undercurrent of something so uniquely _Clint_ that she didn't know how to describe it…it was just _him_.

She threaded her arms into the sleeves and slid the sweatshirt over her head, pulling it down around her torso. With his scent surrounding her now, she turned to face the room.

He hadn't put his mark in this space as much as he had his quarters on the New York base, but he also hadn't been living here as long…and had fundamentally been opposed to the whole 'Helicarrier' idea to begin with. He claimed it was near impossible to 'settle in' somewhere that was always moving.

She wondered sometimes if it just reminded him too strongly of his days as a nomad with Carson's.

But there were still traces of him scattered throughout the small space. The haphazardly abandoned Nike running shoes half shoved under the bed. The half-empty case of blue Gatorades by the door. The mess of tangled sheets on the narrow bed and the pillow folded in half as if it'd been used to prop his head higher for some reason. The stack of books on the bedside table was messy and barely balanced, held up mostly by its tenuous lean against the lamp. Whatever he'd currently been reading would have been with him in New Mexico, but she'd known him to read two or three books at once, depending on his mood.

There was a small pile of clothes in the corner with a sock sitting a foot away like it hadn't quite made it to the pile and he hadn't bothered to help it on its way. There was a small stack of clean and folded clothes on the corner of the small desk. She knew for a fact that had _he_ been the one to launder them, they would not have been folded. Last she'd heard, he'd bribed a starry-eyed recruit to do it for him.

She moved over to the desk, tracing her fingers across the meticulously arranged arrow heads and fletching tools. Clint may keep most of his room in a state that suggested he was nothing more than a sloppy teenager, but his arrows he always treated with near-obsessive care.

The techs made most of his arrows these days, but he always had a handful of his own in his quiver at any given time. It was a skill and a hobby he wasn't willing to give up.

* * *

_August 1, 2011_

* * *

_Natasha shivered as the air vent kicked on and blew chilled air across her bare back, pulling her from her sleep. She shifted, expecting to find warmth in Clint's body behind her – the bed was too small to afford either of them any real room to move – but met nothing but open air instead. Fully awake now, she rolled over, pulling the sheet up around her to keep the chill from the vent at bay, and searched for her wayward archer._

_He wasn't hard to find. He sat, in nothing but boxers with one foot folded underneath him, at his desk. He was very meticulously filing down the edge of an arrow head, brow furrowed in concentration, but movements sure and efficient._

_It was something she'd seen him do before, always with the same precision and ease. He found a certain catharsis in the hobby, she suspected, even if he didn't realize it._

_Unwilling to break whatever peace he'd found – and honestly she enjoyed the view – she just watched him for several long, quiet moments. He continued as if he didn't feel her gaze, but she knew he did. They were tuned to each other, had been for a long time now. He'd probably known the exact moment she woke up._

_Finally, he paused, carefully inspected the arrow head with first his eyes and then his fingers, before he set it down, perfectly in line with the several others on his desk._

" _You gonna stare at me all night?" he asked with a sudden grin as he peeked at her over his shoulder._

" _You gonna stay over there all night and leave me to freeze?"_

_His eyebrow arched and she saw his grin widen._

" _Freeze?" he asked doubtfully._

_She jerked her chin towards the air vent. He followed the gesture with his eyes and then turned his suddenly impish gaze back to her._

" _If you wanted to have your way with me again, all you had to do was say the word."_

_But even as he teased her, he rose from the desk, turned off the lamp on the corner and moved across the room. He slid back onto the small bed, allowing her to burrow into his chest even as he worked to get the sheet back over both of them._

" _Better?" he asked in a low rumble, his chin shifting to rest lightly on top of her hair and one of his arms closing around her, pulling her closer._

_She hummed in contentment and let her eyes drift closed again, listening to the slow, steady sounds of his breaths. When she felt sufficiently warmed, she shifted, lifting her head and kissing the underside of his chin. A day's worth of scratchy stubble tickled her nose and she smiled._

" _Did you sleep at all?" she asked softly._

_He hummed something indiscernible and she felt the vibration of it where she was pressed up against his chest._

" _Something on your mind?" she continued quietly._

_He hummed something again and shifted, hand drifting slowly up the curve of her spine. She shivered and he chuckled._

" _Not feeling very articulate?" she wondered with a grin._

_He hummed something that sounded like a negative response and pulled away slightly, nudging her forehead with his nose until she tilted her head back far enough that he could kiss her._

_Five years they'd celebrated that night. Five years since he threw caution to the wind and decided she was worth something to the world. Less than that since they'd become partners. And less still since they'd become something more._

_As she kissed him now, she knew that this was it. She'd found the one thing that she had once been certain would never be hers._

_This is what it meant to feel complete._

* * *

Natasha withdrew her fingers from the arrow head, releasing a deep breath to dispel the lingering memory. She turned away from the desk and moved over to the narrow bed, dropping down to sit on it and then laying back to look at the ceiling. How many times had they shared this small space, or the identical bunk back in her room? Clint often postulated that the lack of excess space just made things more interesting.

And she supposed that was a good way to put it. The first time they'd taken one of these things for a 'test drive' – Clint's words, not hers – he'd ended up with a bruised elbow, and a knot on his temple, both from the corner of pesky bedside table. She'd bruised her knee and – to Clint's endless amusement – her _ass_ when they'd gotten a little too acrobatic and she'd ended up on the floor.

Phil hadn't dared ask when he'd seen Clint's bruised temple and her ginger attempts at sitting the next morning.

They'd had to get more creative – and careful – after that to make effective use of the small bunk.

She sighed, glancing over at the leaning tower of books. She slid the top one off the pile and turned it so she could see the cover.

 _Take a Thief_ by Mercedes Lackey.

She chewed her lip, recognizing the title. He'd had it for as long as she'd known him and had read it at least half a dozen times that she knew of. He was apparently in the middle of it right now because she could see the very top edge of a bookmark peeking out.

Curious for no other reason than it being in her nature, she opened the book to the marked page and the bookmark went fluttering down to her chest. It looked like a small photo. _Very_ curious now, she draped the book over her abdomen and picked the photo up, turning it over so she could see what it was.

Her throat tightened and her eyes welled when she realized what she was looking at.

It was her. A candid photo, that she only vaguely remembered him sneaking years ago, of her sitting cross legged on his bed back at the New York base. Her hair was still long then and it fell in loose, slightly disheveled waves. She was wearing the same sweatshirt she wore now – though if memory served that was _all_ she was wearing at the time – and was smiling up at him even as she held the pieces to her disassembled Makarov in her hands.

The memory of that moment became clearer now, as she stared at the picture.

He'd just gotten back from South Africa, his mission there having gone completely sideways. She'd taken it upon herself to help him forget everything that had happened – a delicate process considering he'd had a bullet hole in his side. That mission was easily accomplished, though, and they'd spent the remainder of that evening just hanging out in his room. What was an assassin to do with extra time on her hands when her partner wasn't up for repeated physical activity – at least not as 'repeated' as he usually managed?

Clean her weapons, of course. Why he'd snapped a picture of it, was beyond her. She looked a mess in it.

But she remembered it as if it were yesterday now.

He'd been sitting at his desk, stiffly bent over his tools as he methodically fletched an arrow. She'd been looking down at the disassembled gun spread out before her. She'd looked up at a short, low whistle, and found him turned in his chair with his phone angled at her. She'd smiled even as he snapped the picture. The expression that had taken over his face then…

Nothing but complete adoration and contentment.

* * *

_December 2009_

* * *

" _You're beautiful, you know that?" Clint told her quietly, a soft smile – one meant only for her – curving up the corners of his mouth. He twirled his phone absently in his hand as he stared at her._

" _Are you crazy? I'm a mess," she challenged, gesturing at her sex-tousled hair and fading makeup. She was absolutely certain she didn't look anywhere near good enough to warrant a look like that. She was wearing an old ratty sweatshirt for one._

" _You don't even see it, do you?" he replied seriously._

_She arched an eyebrow curiously and his smile, if possible, softened even further._

" _What I see when I look at you."_

* * *

Natasha drew in a shaky breath and let it out slowly.

She'd never understood it. How he had always been able to see past the Black Widow. Even in the beginning, he'd seen _her._ And years later, he was still seeing her.

Seeing what no one else ever saw.

Her eyes stung and she quickly picked the book back up, searching for distraction. Her eyes fell to words on the middle of the page.

" _Unfortunately, though he had cultivated acute hearing, it wasn't good enough to enable him to hear what it was that the dour sell-sword was saying._

_However, it did seem as if the man was buying, not selling information. When the surreptitious motion that marked the passing of coins from hand to hand finally took place, it was the sell-sword who passed the coins to Skif's target, and not the other way around."_

A small grin tweaked the corner of her mouth. She could already see, with only a few sentences, why Clint loved this book. It sounded like an excerpt out of his everyday life.

Smile fading, she carefully slid the bookmark back into its place in the book. She returned it to the stack and curled onto her side, pulling down his pillow until she could hug it to her chest and bury her face in it.

Her hand hit something hard and she frowned, wrapping her fingers around the offending device.

She pulled it out and could only stare for a long moment at his iPod, most likely forgotten since it had been lost in the bed. Clint was always losing it and his phone amongst his pillows and blankets.

Seeing the beloved device, this tangible piece of him, holding it in her hand…it was her undoing. She clenched her hand around the iPod and buried her face in the pillow.

Then she just let it all go, just this once, with no one to bear witness to the moment of weakness.

She wasn't sure how long she laid there, hiding the evidence of her fear and worry from an empty room. But when a light knock came at the door, she forced a deep, albeit shaky, breath and pulled her face from Clint's pillow, turning red-rimmed eyes to the door.

"It's me, Natasha," came a familiar voice from the other side.

Phil. Of course it was Phil.

She forced herself to sit up and wiped at her eyes with her hand. Satisfied most of the evidence was hidden in Clint's pillow, she looked to the door again.

"You can come in."

A moment later she heard the palm scanner beep its approval and the door unlocked. Phil slid in a moment later, closing the door quietly behind him. He leaned back against it – very purposefully not looking around, she noticed – and stared at her.

"You okay?" he asked softly.

The slightly hysterical huff of laughter she couldn't hold back just seemed to add to his concern.

"I'm _fine_ ," she stated with a shake of her head. "Just _fine_." She pushed a hand up through her hair and sighed.

Phil's mouth quirked sympathetically and he pushed away from the door. He moved to sit next to her on the bed, eyes drifting to the stack of books before snapping away and focusing on some blank spot on the wall.

"You don't have to be, you know," he offered.

She shook her head again, but couldn't find the words to reply.

"I'm not," he admitted quietly.

She turned her gaze to watch his profile. A moment later he shifted so he could meet her eyes.

"I _do_ have to be," she insisted in a near whisper. "I'm _supposed_ to be."

"Why?" he asked simply, but then answered his own question. "Because you're the Black Widow?"

She raised her eyebrows and shrugged her shoulders a little in a 'well, yeah' type way.

"And when have you _ever_ been _that_ to him? When have you ever been the Black Widow in _this_ room?"

Hadn't she just been thinking that when she first came in? It was true. Phil knew it. She knew it. She'd never been the Black Widow to Clint. She'd been Romanoff first. Then, in Vietnam, she'd become Natasha. She was sometimes Tasha, sometimes Nat or Tash…but never Black Widow. Not to Clint.

"I sure as hell know I've never been anything but Phil for a very, _very_ long time."

She watched him look around then, scanning the room slowly and then swallowing thickly.

"When we go back out that door, it'll be different. We'll be strong then. We'll be unshakeable. We'll be Agent Coulson and Agent Romanoff, Overwatch and the Black Widow. But in _here_ , in his room, we're Phil and Natasha and we don't have to be okay."

Natasha felt her throat start to burn and willed away the emotions threatening to overwhelm her again. Phil's hand landed on her shoulder, gliding across her shoulder blade to rest under the hood at the base of her neck. He squeezed gently and then withdrew the touch.

"I'm scared." Her confession was made in a whisper, barely loud enough for her to hear herself, but somehow Phil heard it too. "This time is different and I'm _so_ scared…"

"I know. So am I," he admitted it so easily, with no shame. "I'm absolutely terrified because I don't see how this ends. I don't know how we'll get him back. I don't know when. All I know is that he's out there, _alone_. He's my…" Phil trailed off and gestured helplessly around the room, taking in all the pieces of it that made it _Clint's_. When he spoke again, his voice was rougher, "You _know_ what he is to me. And the only thing that's keeping me sane is the knowledge of one, unshakeable, undeniable fact."

She watched him closely, intrigued.

"What?"

He met her gaze again.

"Clint Barton is a goddamned _survivor_."

Like his words were a shot of adrenaline, she felt like she'd gotten a second wind.

"He'll do his part and stay alive. And we'll do ours and _find him_."

He sounded so sure, so absolutely certain. It was heartening, but a betraying thought still pricked at her.

"But what if we find him…and he's not _him_ anymore? We don't know what Loki's spear did to him."

Phil smiled now and Natasha frowned in confusion.

"Do you really think a personality like _Clint's_ is so easily erased? Loki bit off more than he could chew with him, I guarantee it."

Natasha found herself smiling too. Phil nodded, looking satisfied, and stood.

"Take all the time you need. Get some sleep. Fury wants to let Loki stew for a few hours, and then he's gonna send in Thor. If that doesn't work, then you're up." He met her gaze even as he shifted towards the door. "Everything you're feeling right now, use it. Channel it and let it work in your favor. Find out why he's here." He put his hand on the door handle but paused. "I don't think it's a coincidence that this plan of his seems so familiar. It's a play Clint would make. So if you can get _anything_ on Clint from him…"

She nodded. He didn't need to finish.

"What are _you_ going to do?" she asked even as pushed herself to standing and wiped her eyes again, taking a deep, cleansing breath.

"I've got to brief Thor on Jane Foster. Then do my best to get some shut eye myself."

She nodded and watched him leave. She moved over to the narrow door that led to Clint's small bathroom. It was cramped even for one person – of course that hadn't stopped them from taking the narrow shower for a 'test drive' of its own – but it served its purpose. She washed her face and took a few more cleansing breaths, then she moved back into Clint's room. She went back to Clint's bed, curling on top of the blanket and snuggling into the pillow once again. She slid his earbuds into her ears and pressed play on his iPod. The mellow notes from an Eagles' song filled her mind. She burrowed farther into his sweatshirt, inhaling his scent and letting it surround her as she closed her eyes and took slow, purposeful breaths.

Soon, she'd have to be the Black Widow again. She'd have to leave this room and be unshakeable. She'd have to face Loki and deal with whatever the alien revealed. But for now….

She could just be Natasha.

* * *

 _April 13, 2012 (April 12, 2012, NYC)_  
_2:43 a.m._ _Local Time (8:43 pm NYC)  
_ _Bordeaux, France_

* * *

Aiden Carlyle tilted his head, cracking the vertebrae of his neck. He'd only been on duty for 43 minutes and he was already bored. If only there were a mission active in the area, then perhaps he'd have some action to look forward to. The Bordeaux field storage unit was not the largest of SHIELD's weapons deposits throughout the world, or even throughout Europe. But it did have its own jet, on standby for any field team in need. It had a TAC-team's worth of gear too.

If Aiden ever passed his field test, he hoped to _be_ on one of those TAC teams one day.

The door intercom beeped.

Aiden frowned. As far as he'd been told, he wasn't supposed to be expecting anyone.

His eyes shifted to the printed bulletin tacked up on the cork board.

WANTED

PRIORITY 1

CLINT "HAWKEYE" BARTON

Beneath the words was Hawkeye's SHIELD ID picture and a notation that he should be considered armed and extremely dangerous.

The door buzzed again, several times in quick succession.

Aiden blew out a breath and reached for the intercom button.

"Code in."

" _I need help."_ The voice was edging on panic.

Aiden frowned, shifting to wake up his computer and pull up the exterior security cameras.

"Code in," he repeated firmly.

" _4-9-4-7-6-2-Delta-Zulu,"_ the voice said in a rush. Then… _"Hurry, they're coming."_

Aiden felt his adrenaline spike as he typed in the ID even as he selected the front door camera, bringing up the feed.

The ID log popped up with a name at the same time he recognized the figure on the screen.

"Holy shit."

He was here. If the ID hadn't given it away, the bow the man was carrying would have.

"HOLY SHIT."

That was Hawkeye. Standing outside his door.

He pressed the intercom button again.

"Put down your weapons. I'm placing you under arrest."

Hawkeye shifted, looking directly at the supposedly _hidden_ security camera. Aiden couldn't really see his face because of the shadows, but he held his hands out wide from his body. Trying to look less threatening, Aiden supposed.

" _Please, I barely got away. You know what happened. I was taken against my will. I escaped, but they're right behind me."_

Aiden hesitated.

" _I need your help."_

Hawkeye needed his help, _his_. This was arguably the most notorious agent in SHIELD history. The _only_ covert, distance assassin on file. He was a legend and a ghost all at the same time. His name was said in whispers and his records gaped at in awe.

He'd been with SHIELD for years. Had bled for the cause more than once. Aiden would know, he'd revered the man all through training. He'd watched recruit after recruit try to beat the organization-wide record Barton had set in the range. No one had ever come close.

Maybe he _had_ escaped. If anyone could have managed it, it would have been Hawkeye.

Best just to be safe, though…for now.

"Stow your bow and thread your fingers behind your head."

He watched to make sure the wayward agent was obeying. He was, but he kept looking over his shoulder like he was waiting for someone to jump out at him.

Aiden stood from the computer, moving towards the door. With a deep breath, he drew his side arm and pressed his thumb to the finger print reader on the door lock and heard the locks disengage.

"Keep your hands threaded," he instructed sternly as he slowly pulled the door open, scanning the dark night behind the archer.

Hawkeye didn't move, had his chin dipped and his eyes down. His hands were obediently threaded together behind his head.

"How many are chasing you?"

"About that…"

Then, Hawkeye raised his gaze and Aiden got his first real look at his eyes. Blue like ice. Unnatural.

"What the fu..."

Hawkeye exploded into motion, his left hand swinging out from behind his head. He twisted the gun out of Aiden's hand even as he kicked out with his boot at the inside of Aiden's knee. The joint collapsed under him, sending him towards the ground. He barely caught himself on his other knee, but before he could even mount a defense, Hawkeye stepped forward and brought his own knee sharply up into Aiden's chin, sending him sprawling backwards onto the floor.

He rolled to his side with a groan, eyes going immediately to the emergency lock down button, hidden on the underside of the desk with a plastic cover to prevent accidental touches.

"I wouldn't." Aiden's eyes snapped back to Hawkeye's. A dozen men poured into the room behind the assassin. "You'll never get to it. Now, I need your thumb…and I can take it the hard way or the easy way. That's up to you."

Aiden swallowed, met that unnatural blue gaze for a breath and then scrambled towards the button.

"Hard way it is," Hawkeye muttered.

Aiden's finger brushed the plastic cover on the button, but then he was yanked back. Before he could even mount a defense, he was flung backwards by the shoulder. His back met something solid but soft and then strong arms locked around him, pulling him up and holding him in place. Hawkeye stepped in front of him, slowing pulling a knife from a sheath hidden at his back.

Aiden struggled against the arms trapping him. But the large man holding him, larger than either he or the Hawk, was unmoved.

"Everybody gear up and get that jet through the pre-flight prep," Hawkeye ordered.

The mass of men that had filed in from outside started moving back towards the door that would take them to the weapons and gear.

"Wait." Hawkeye's command brought them all to a stop. "You're gonna need this."

He grabbed Aiden's hand and forcefully uncurled his thumb from the fist he'd tried to hide it in. He placed the sharp blade of his knife just under the bottom joint and then met Aiden's wide terrified gaze with his own unnaturally blue eyes.

"Should have picked the easy way."

Then he pressed harder with the blade.

Aiden couldn't hold back a scream and almost immediately one of the arms holding him loosened and a hand clamped around his mouth, silencing him. Mercifully, the knife was sharp and did its work quickly. Aiden panted, sagging against the arms holding him, as Hawkeye tossed his liberated thumb to the man nearest the weapon room door.

He met the turncoat agent's eyes again, the icy blueness sending a chill down his spine.

For a long moment, Hawkeye stared at him, then abruptly turned away.

"Get rid of him. We can't have him alerting SHIELD."

Aiden had precisely five painfully brief seconds to process what that meant before the arms around him shifted, locking around his head and neck instead.

The last thing he saw was the back of a dirty blonde head.

* * *

_End of Chapter 6_

_Yikes...anybody else intimated by dark-Clint? Poor Aiden *shakes head*_

_What about Natasha's breakdown? She's strong, she's fierce, but she's also firmly and completely in love with Clint...and she's legitimately afraid she'll never get him back._

_You want more? I got more. Meet me here tomorrow and you'll get it. Until then, drop me a line and enjoy your preview_

* * *

_"I do not **need** your protection!" he spat, voice dropping an octave in anger. "My purpose here will not be thwarted and when I have prevailed, it is **you** who will beg for **my** protection!"_

_Thor opened his mouth to reply, but Loki stepped closer, eyes blazing, and went on,_

_"You want to know why, my **brother**?" he spat the familial term with as much venom as he could muster. "Why I chose this realm to conquer for my own? I will tell you why," he hissed._


	7. Through The Storm

_Disclaimer: I do not own "The Avengers" or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works. I do not claim any of the directly quoted lines from "The Avengers" as my own, they belong to Marvel and the writers._ _The cover art came from a google search with the original source being pinterest where it was credited to Anthony Genuardi._

 _Author's Note: While I embrace_ **_constructive_ ** _criticism, remember this old saying if you choose to leave a review "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all"_

* * *

 _Special thanks to all who reviewed Chapter Six:_ **Hamham2931, HappyFan, RoS13, Isi7140, Literally, Firali, Kali588, RandominatorOwl, beargirl1393, Bamber32**

 _Thanks as always to my awesome betas_ **Kylen** _and_ **JRBarton** _for being so good at being awesome._

 

_And so we ramble on!_

* * *

_Last time in The Untold Stories:_

_For a long moment, Hawkeye stared at him, then abruptly turned away._

_"Get rid of him. We can't have him alerting SHIELD."_

_Aiden had precisely five painfully brief seconds to process what that meant before the arms around him shifted, locking around his head and neck instead._

_The last thing he saw was the back of a dirty blonde head._

* * *

_We shall defend our island, whatever the cost may be, we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender._  
**_Winston Churchill_ **

* * *

_April 13, 2012_  
_3:07 a.m. NYC  
_ _Helicarrier Detention Level, somewhere over the Atlantic_

* * *

Loki stared through the glass of his prison, out into the inky blackness of the night, visible through the large window behind his cell. Hours they'd left him now, without a word. But as he waited patiently, he planned.

They would send Thor first, he was certain of it. If for no other reason than Thor – with some misguided belief that they were still brothers – would insist.

Thor would try to appeal to his emotions, to the lifetime of brotherhood they shared. If those years held any value for Loki now, perhaps the strategy would have some success. But they did not, not anymore. Now, they meant nothing to him but for their evidence of a lifetime of lies. Evidence of Odin's deceit and betrayal…and worst of all, of his rejection. Thor was part of that. Thor was the _cause_ of it.

Loki lifted his chin when he heard the door to the detention area slid open. He turned to see his onetime brother slowly making his way into the room.

Thor remained silent as he came to stand on the other side of the glass and Loki found himself moving to face him.

For a long time, they just stared at each other through the glass.

"Why?" Thor finally asked. "Why are you doing this?"

Loki stared at him darkly.

"You speak as if you do not _already_ know _._ "

Thor shook his head.

"I _do not_ know, Loki. What has this realm done to deserve your wrath? Those who live here are innocent."

Loki could see the pain in his former brother's eyes and found himself smiling carelessly.

" _Why_ are you doing this?" Thor asked again, his tone both firm and desperate at the same time.

"Why not?" he taunted. "And besides, this is _her_ realm, is it not? I told you, back on Asgard, that I would have my vengeance one way or another."

Thor stared at him with sad eyes.

"Do you hate me this much? Loki, we are _brothers._ "

"But we are _not_ brothers, Thor," Loki corrected sharply. " _Your_ father has made that clear. I am _nothing_ to him or to you. Just as you are _nothing_ to me."

"We were raised together. We played together, grew together. I was _always_ your brother, Loki," Thor replied firmly. "And I always will be."

Loki laughed humorlessly.

"Hollow words," he accused.

"Loki…" Thor started, but Loki cut him off.

"Do not patronize me with false professions of love," he spat. "We both know the truth. There is no more need for pretense."

"I do _not_ pretend, Loki. Brother, please hear me, now. Whatever I have done, whatever the cause of this hate you bear for me, I will make it right. But you must stop this now before you have taken it too far."

Loki curved his lips into a smile. Hearing his former brother beg was even more gratifying than he expected.

"And what is _too_ far, _brother?_ " Loki challenged darkly.

Thor studied him quietly without answering. Then he shifted the conversation.

"The people on this vessel, they have done nothing to you." Thor replied calmly. "Whatever your plan for them, whatever your reason for allowing your capture, please, I beg you, do not continue down this path. If you do, I will not be able to protect you."

Loki glared through the glass, as he expected, this had never been about repairing the rift between them. It was a ruse to uncover his plan, to thwart him from his goal.

"I do not _need_ your protection!" he spat, voice dropping an octave in anger. "My purpose here will not be thwarted and when I have prevailed, it is _you_ who will beg for _my_ protection!"

Thor opened his mouth to reply, but Loki stepped closer, eyes blazing, and went on,

"You want to know why, my _brother_?" he spat the familial term with as much venom as he could muster. "Why I chose this realm to conquer for my own? I will tell you why," he hissed. "Because you have taken my birthright from me. I was to rule my own realm! I was to be a _king_ and your father stole that from me when he destroyed my people. And _then_ as if he had not taken enough, he has denied me Asgard. He has cast me aside for _you_. You, who in all your arrogance and _idiocy_ are far less worthy than I. So, _brother,_ if I cannot rule my own people, if I cannot have _Asgard_ , then I will make my dynasty _here._ I will conquer this world that you love and take these weak beings you strive to protect as my slaves. And when I have my victory and you lie defeated at my feet, Father will see his folly! He will see that _I_ was the one worthy to rule, _not you!_ "

Thor's eyes were wide with something akin to horror, and he stared at Loki as if he could not believe his words. Even after all that had happened between them, he still didn't understand that all that was between them was _lost_ , gone.

"Do you hate me that much, brother?" Thor asked quietly.

Loki laughed.

"Oh to hate you, Thor, would require some feeling toward you. Instead, I am indifferent."

Thor turned away from him then, paced a few steps away, but not before Loki saw the deep pain in his gaze.

A few moments later Thor turned back and met Loki's gaze sadly.

"I loved you, brother. I always will." he said sincerely, but then his voice hardened. "But I will not let you do this."

Then he walked away, out the door without looking back.

Loki turned away, putting his back to the cameras he knew were watching him.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath to calm his emotions. He'd revealed nothing of his plans, had resisted Thor's attempts at manipulations. But it was not over yet. They would send another now. They would send _her_.

And thanks to Agent Barton, Loki would be ready when she came.

* * *

 _April 13, 2012_  
_6:20 a.m. NYC  
_ _Helicarrier Bridge, just off the coast of North America_

* * *

Phil stood with arms crossed, Fury by his side, and Hill on the director's left. They all watched Natasha move into the detention area without a sound, watched her come to stand in front of Loki's cell and then wait to be noticed.

It only took a moment, and Loki was grinning that Cheshire grin that bled poison. He turned even as he spoke.

" _Hm. There are not many people that can sneak up on me."_

" _But you figured I'd come,"_ she replied evenly. Phil nodded slightly. _There you go,_ he thought, _control the emotions. Use them._

" _After."_ Loki allowed. _"After whatever tortures Fury can concoct, you would appear as a friend, as a balm. And I would cooperate."_

Phil arched an eyebrow. Maybe they _should_ have worked the asshole over and given that a shot. They might have if not for Thor. Psychotic sociopathic tendencies aside, Loki was still considered a brother by the Asgardian.

Natasha, apparently, wasn't in the mood to play games, because her next question was pointed and direct.

" _I wanna know what you've done with Agent Barton."_

_Easy, Natasha…_

" _I'd say I've expanded his mind,"_ Loki replied flippantly.

Natasha studied him in a way Phil was familiar with, like a predator examining her prey a moment before she went for the jugular.

" _And once you've won,"_ she started.

Fury nodded next to him, muttering lowly.

"Atta girl."

Phil couldn't help but agree. She was playing into Loki's delusion, feeding his ego, assuming his victory. It would hopefully bring down his guard.

" _Once you're king of the mountain,"_ she went on. _"What happens to his mind?"_

Loki tilted his head, smiling again in a way that told them all that he already knew the answer to his next question as he asked it – he was trying to mock her.

" _Is this love, Agent Romanoff?"_

* * *

Loki watched the woman with a head of fire lift her chin slightly, her response nearly automatic.

It was exactly as Agent Barton had warned him it would be.

"Love is for children. I owe him a debt."

It was a practiced line, one Agent Barton had told him all about. He knew every detail of their sordid encounter with her ex-lover Alexi Shostakov and of the mantra that had been born of those events.

Love is for children.

A pathetic attempt to add depth and meaning to the emotions Barton and Romanoff harbored for each other. But Loki had taken great care and time to glean every small piece of information he could from Barton about Natasha Romanoff and whatever they chose to call it, their relationship would be his greatest weapon.

But not yet, not until the opportunity was there to deliver the blow with as much force as possible.

Her declaration of indebtedness was peculiar, however. It was a trivialization of their feelings. Perhaps an attempt to throw him off that particular scent.

He already knew the story behind their meeting, but he was curious as to what spin she would put on it in an attempt to convince him Barton was nothing to her but a debt to be paid.

"Tell me," he instructed curiously.

She quirked her eyebrow and tilted her head in acquiescence. She moved slowly to sit and regard him through the glass.

"Before I worked for SHIELD, I…well, I made a name for myself. I have a very specific skill set. I didn't care who I used it for," she quirked her eyebrow again, "or _on_. I got on SHIELD's radar in a bad way." She paused now, a telling breath of silence that gave away the weight behind her next words. "Agent Barton was sent to kill me. He made a different call."

Loki studied her closely. She was concealing it poorly, her feelings for Barton. Or perhaps he saw it clearly because Barton had told him where to look.

"And what will you do…if I vow to spare him?" he offered curiously, intent on toying with her. If he ignited hope for Barton's salvation, it would be all the more devastating when he crushed it.

"Not let you out," was her immediate reply.

He was instantly intrigued. She'd denied what she had expected him to ask for, but she had _not_ rejected the concept of brokering a deal all together. She was tipping her hand, showing her weakness. She cared too much for Barton and was grasping for a way to save him.

The moment to strike was rapidly approaching.

"Ah, no." He brushed off her refusal. "But I like this. Your world in the balance and you bargain for one man?"

Romanoff's expression smoothed as she smirked, hiding visible traces of her emotion.

"Regimes fall every day. I tend not to weep over that, I'm Russian." She quirked her lips. "Or I was."

"And what are you now?" Loki asked slowly.

"It's really not that complicated." She smirked and stood, moving to stand just on the other side of the glass. "I've got red in my ledger. I'd like to wipe it out."

Back to the talk of debts. Her ledger was not a physical thing, not like Barton's. Barton had told him of the book of the dead he'd kept from his former life; a book he'd burned in a poor attempt to put the past behind him. But Loki knew that, for Barton, the past was never far from his mind.

Romanoff, it seemed, lived by the same philosophy.

"Can you?" he challenged lowly. "Can you wipe out _that much_ red?" He watched her eyes narrow. "Drakov's daughter? Sao Paulo? The hospital fire?" Her eyes widened in shock now. He'd been hoping for this, to shock her with the sheer _depth_ of his knowledge. "Barton told me everything! Your ledger is _dripping_ , it's gushing red, and you think saving a man no more virtuous than yourself will _change_ anything? This is the basest of sentimentality! This is a child's prayer! _Pathetic!"_

She swallowed, eyes still wide.

"You lie and kill in the service of liars and killers. You pretend to be separate, to have your own code, something to make up for the horrors. But they are part of you and they will _never go away!"_

He slammed his first against the glass, reveling in the fear that flashed across her face as she jumped.

Now. Now was the time to deliver the killing blow.

"I won't _touch_ Barton! Not until I make him kill you! Slowly, _intimately,_ in every way he knows you fear!" Horror swept through her gaze. "And then he'll wake just long enough to see his good work," she whirled away, face stricken, "and when he screams I'll split his _skull!_ This is my bargain, you mewling quim!"

* * *

Phil watched Natasha sob, her back to Loki.

He smiled. She was doing beautifully, appearing to play right into Loki's hands.

He'd been worried for a moment, when Loki had brought his plans for Clint into it. For a moment he hadn't been able to distinguish real fear and horror from the contrived. But she seemed to have regained her balance.

Todd Bryan came up on Phil's shoulder, clapping him on the back in greeting.

"I just brought on the last group of agents from base. We expecting to start a fight? We've got enough personnel on board to liberate a small country."

"Fury want to be prepared for all possible contingencies," Phil explained simply, vaguely.

Todd nodded, eyeing the screen as Loki smiled victoriously.

"So this is the bastard that took him?" His eyes shifted to the face trace still going on another screen. "Still nothing on the pain in the ass?"

Phil shook his head, watching Natasha closely. She angled her eyes up to the camera...and winked.

" _You're a monster,"_ she said.

Todd snorted and Phil smiled. _Shrek_ had been playing on a loop in the mess hall last month – the system hacked by some newbie tech they'd recruited out of a cyber-crime detention unit. Clint had been working quotes into every day conversation for weeks after that. If Phil never again heard him merrily announce that 'In the mornin', I'm makin' _waffles_!' it'd still be too soon.

Loki's smile was feral, vicious, and triumphant.

" _Oh, no._ _ **You**_ _brought the monster."_

Natasha straightened, all pretenses of broken emotion fading even more quickly than they'd been conjured. She smirked at the camera and then schooled her features. She turned back with a curious arch to her eyebrow.

" _So…Banner? That's your play?"_

Loki's smile fell, confusion taking its place.

" _What?"_

Natasha was already heading for the exit, keying her earpiece that would link her to the main communication system, allowing all on duty agents to hear her.

" _Loki means to unleash the Hulk. Keep Banner in the lab, I'm on my way. Send Thor as well."_

She turned one last time, giving Loki a sweet little smile that was laced with latent hatred.

" _Thank you, for your cooperation."_

Phil laughed, drawing more than one confused eye. Next to him, Todd was already issuing orders into his ear piece. He met Phil's gaze.

"That's my cue. Watch your six, Phil."

Phil waved an acknowledging hand over his shoulder as he keyed his own communicator.

"Does anyone have eyes on Thor?"

* * *

 _April 13, 2012_  
_6:30 a.m.  
_ _Main Lab, Helicarrier_

* * *

Natasha scanned the scene in the lab, analyzing it even as she crossed the threshold. Tension were rising. Banner turned an accusing gaze on her, gesturing towards a weapon laying on a table in front of Steve.

"Did you know about this?"

She eyed the weapon.

Hydra.

_Wonderful._

"You wanna think about removing yourself from this environment, doctor?" she asked instead of answering. Admitting knowledge of SHIELD harboring Hydra weaponry would have been a bad move in current company. Admitting her _lack_ of knowledge, though, was little better.

Best to just blow right past it.

"I was in Kolkata," Banner laughed cynically, effectively redirected, "I was pretty well removed."

"Loki's manipulating you," she stated, though she wasn't even sure herself _how_ the prisoner was managing it.

"And you've been doing what exactly?"

Natasha barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

"You didn't come here because I bat my eyelashes at you."

If she remembered correctly, that tactic had been decidedly ineffective.

"Yes, and I'm not leaving because suddenly you get a little twitchy," he shot back.

Natasha narrowed her gaze, letting Fury deal with Banner's next accusation disguised as a question. Instead, she scanned the room, trying to figure out how Loki intended to unleash the Hulk. She listened to Fury combat the criticism from all sides, not surprised when he did so smoothly and easily. He _did_ deal with the Council of Asshats – Clint's term, not hers – on a regular basis.

But when they started questioning the _reason_ for having weapons capable of combating the likes of Thor and his crew, she had to step in.

"Are you boys really that naïve? SHIELD monitors potential threats." She was living proof of that and so was Clint. SHIELD did its job so well _because_ it monitored _all_ threats, no matter how innocent or loyal they seemed.

"And Captain America's on the threat watch?" Banner spat scathingly.

Natasha turned on him.

"We all are!" It was foolish and ignorant to think otherwise. To believe that just because you did a good thing once, SHIELD stopped paying attention. Everybody had a potential for destruction, even Captain America.

She watched Rogers and Stark zero in on each other, wondering with grim satisfaction if they were finally going to go at it. It'd been a long time coming at this point. One of them was bound to snap. How long had it been since she'd been in a good brawl? Too long.

Behind them the spear glowed, but Natasha was shifting over to Fury, trying to calm her increasingly bloodthirsty thoughts.

"We're wasting time," she accused, "We need to get Banner contained."

Fury waved a hand in a 'calm down' motion.

"So far he's given us no reason to think he's going to lose control."

"It's why Loki's here. If we can stop his play before it starts, we can use his failure against him to help get a location on Clint."

"Agent Barton is not the prior…" Fury's attention was diverted to Thor as his accusing voice cut through the arguing.

"You speak of control, yet you court chaos!"

Natasha nearly growled when Banner threw in his two cents, igniting a whole new debate between Rogers and Stark. Though she couldn't help but momentarily admire Stark's continued ability to remain unruffled even in the face of Roger's scathing words.

The two continued to lay into each other, but Natasha was done listening. They were wasting time. Clint was still out there and while he might not be the top priority to Fury, he was damn sure the top priority to her. Maybe it was time for round two with Loki. She looked back towards the exit, suddenly relishing the thought of spilling a little alien blood.

Her attention was dragged back when Fury addressed her.

"Agent Romanoff, would you escort Dr. Banner back to his –"

"WHERE?" Banner snapped. "You rented my room!"

Fury tried to calm him.

"The cell was just –"

"In case you needed to kill me. But you can't, I know, I tried!"

Everyone froze, staring at him. Natasha searched his face, looking for signs of green. She listened to him recount his attempt at suicide, closely tracking his slow shift back towards the table where the spear was resting.

"You wanna know my secret, Agent Romanoff? You wanna know how I stay calm?"

Natasha watched his hand shift, slowly and calmly grasping the spear. She shifted her hand to her gun, barely noticing Fury do the same.

"Doctor Banner," it was Rogers that spoke, never one to shoot first and ask later, "put down the spear."

Banner looked painfully, bewilderingly confused. Natasha frowned, eyeing the spear in his hand…maybe…

A beep from across the room drew everyone's attention. She looked to the source, but just as quickly looked back at Banner.

"Got it." Fury sounded relieved.

Natasha stared at Banner until he put the spear down and moved past her.

"Sorry, kids. You don't get to see my party trick after all."

Natasha followed him, still wary, over to the console where the beep had sounded. She eyed the screen from a few feet away, ignoring, for the moment, the argument about what should happen next that was taking place amongst the others.

She saw the trace reach 99% and then watched Banner's face blanch.

"Oh my god."

That's when she felt it. She cursed Loki and the damn spear because she had a feeling that's why she hadn't realized it until now. But she was tuned to Clint. Every fiber of her being lived in harmony and symphony with his. He walked into a room, she felt it. He was watching her from the shadows on a mission and somehow she knew where he was. When they fought together, it was as if they were one body, one mind.

They didn't have to search anymore.

He was here.

Then the world exploded.

* * *

 _April 13, 2012_  
_6:45 a.m. NYC  
_ _Helicarrier Infirmary_

* * *

Doctor Dan Wilson was finishing the last stitch on a gash on an agent's arm – who had somehow managed to slice his arm between the jet he arrived on and his bunk room just by _tripping –_ when he felt the floor shake.

A breath later alarms were blaring, emergency strobe lights flashing, and a voice blasting over the intercom.

" _Emergency Protocol Delta is in effect. Proceed to your designated emergency zone. Emergency Protocol Delta is in effect. Proceed to your designated emergency zone."_

Protocol Delta. Dan's eyes widened. Protocol Delta meant they were under attack.

"Jesus Christ…" _Not again._

Dan quickly tied off the stitch and turned towards the infirmary door, reaching it in a few long strides.

"Anybody that doesn't want to get locked down in here better get the hell out."

He gave the various agents, including Mr. 'I Tripped' a few moments to jog out the door and then he shifted the panel next to it and pressed his handprint to the waiting palm reader. Once it accepted his print, a keypad popped up. He typed in the lockdown sequence and then stepped back. He heard the door locks engage and metal grating slid down to cover the windows to the hallway.

That done, Dan turned back to face the infirmary. Half the staff was looking at him, the other half was looking at Christine Webber, the infirmary head.

"John, Martha, Janae and Rose, prep all of our field kits, we need to be ready if and when they are needed," Christine ordered briskly. "Alice, Beth, and Jamie, make sure all of our trauma rooms are stocked and ready to receive patients. Jake and Marty, prep surgery."

The various nurses and orderlies scattered to their various assignments while Christine bee-lined it for Dan. When she reached him she spoke in low tones so as not to be overheard.

"Protecting this infirmary is our number one priority. We cannot have a repeat of what happened in New York."

Dan barely resisted the urge to respond with a properly sarcastic, 'No shit.'

Instead, he nodded towards his office.

"I think I can help with that."

He led the way, pushing through his office door and moving immediately to his desk. He unlocked the bottom drawer and withdrew several small hand guns one after the other – five in total.

Christine's eyes were wide when he raised his gaze to meet hers.

"I don't intend to go down without a fight this time. Do you?"

Her shoulders squared and she nodded once, sharply.

"I know that John, Jake, and Beth all passed weapons qualifications to become field medics." She offered the names even as she lifted one of the guns herself. "And personally, I try to make time for the range at least once a month."

Dan arched an eyebrow.

"They teach gun play at Harvard Med?"

Christine's lips quirked in slight smirk, an expression Dan couldn't recall ever having seen her wear before.

"No," she replied simply, intent, apparently, to leave the rest to mystery.

He huffed a slight chuckle, eyeing her with a note of new respect and then picked up a gun for himself.

"I'm a shit shot, but I'm qualified." He smirked himself now. "I say let the bastards try and take us."

Christine picked up the other guns, bundling them carefully in her arms.

"Let them try indeed."

* * *

 _April 13, 2012_  
_6:46 a.m.  
_ _Helicarrier training gym_

* * *

Todd Bryan hauled another agent up by his belt and a grip on his bicep, making sure he was steady before turning to face the group.

"You heard 'em! Let's mount up!" he bellowed with all the confidence and authority he could muster. The agents, most still shaking off their momentary shock from whatever explosion had knocked them off their feet, straightened in near synchronization.

"Alpha team, go west. Bravo, south. Charlie, north. Delta, east. Clear this boat of every goddamned hostile you see. We will not give up this ship, no matter what the cost may be. Am I understood?"

"Yes, sir!" was shouted back in a chorus.

"Echo team, you're with me. MOVE OUT!"

Todd waited for the teams to disperse and for Echo team to gather around him.

If Clint was part of this, and he'd bet dollars to donuts he _was_ , then Todd had to plan his defense accordingly. Clint was a brilliant strategist, one of the best Todd had ever had the honor of training. If he had _any_ input on this attack, then he'd have sent men to one of the most valuable – and also must vulnerable – areas of the ship, intent on taking it down.

"We have one objective, agents, and in it we cannot fail." He scanned their eyes, meeting as many gazes as he could. "The infirmary," he stated simply. All around him eyes lit in understanding and agents nodded. "Two years ago we failed that objective. Will we fail again?"

"NO, SIR!"

Todd nodded sharply to the chorused reply.

"Then let's get it done."

* * *

 _April 13, 2012_  
_6:46 a.m.  
_ _Helicarrier bridge_

* * *

Phil pushed off the console he'd slammed into when the explosion rocked the carrier.

" _Hill!"_ Fury's call came through all their comms loud and clear.

"Number three engine is down!" Hill responded sharply as she assessed the screens in front of her.

"We've been hit," a tech announced needlessly.

Phil ignored them and started towards the exit. Hill would handle the engine problems. If anyone could organize and execute an effective solution, it would be her. Phil, on the other hand, had greater concerns. Even as he jogged down the steps on the bridge, angling for the door, Fury's voice came across the line, issuing the order he was already following.

" _Coulson, initiate defensive lock down in the detention center. Then get to the armory."_

Phil darted out into the hallways, weaving through the crowds of personnel swamping the halls.

"Get back!" he shouted as he moved. "Lock down procedures are in effect! Protocol Delta! Clear the halls!"

He was grimly pleased to see the number of bodies in his way significantly lower as the personnel followed his command.

He pressed his earpiece harder into his ear when he heard Fury call for Natasha. He held his breathe as he waited for her reply.

" _Okay,"_ she announced, though she sounded winded.

Phil took what comfort he could from that and continued on his way. He pulled out his phone as he moved, keeping one eye on it and one eye on the clearing halls. Through his phone he was able to initiate a remote lock down in the detention center and then he slid his phone away. It wouldn't hold anyone in or out for very long – especially if Clint had supplied them with bypass codes – but it was the first line of defense.

The armory was his goal now.

Loki may have thought he played them – that he'd pulled off some elaborate ruse – but Phil wasn't fooled. Loki had been a smoke screen. A distraction. He'd drawn their eye so that they wouldn't see this attack coming. Maybe even the talk of drawing out the Hulk had been part of the scheme.

And in all fairness, it had worked.

But Loki was about to find out that the agents of SHIELD were not going to just go quietly.

Whatever his intent, he would meet formidable resistance.

And if his intent was just to have them blown out of the sky? Well, Phil damn sure intended to see that Loki fell with them.

The comm in his ear keyed on suddenly, a voice he recognized coming across clearly.

" _Got perimeter breach. Hostiles are in SHIELD gear. Call out at every junction."_

Trust Todd Bryan to be leading the way into battle.

Phil had reached the armory now, passed through the first door and headed to a second door on the back wall. He leaned down slightly and initiated the retinal scan.

Hostiles in SHIELD gear. That was smart. It had Clint's tactical genius written all over it. Phil tried to push that thought out of his mind – to focus instead on his current mission. He picked up the weapon he'd come for and turned, heading immediately back the way he'd come.

Frantic calls came a few moments later about engine one going down, but it wasn't until Fury announced the cause that Phil stuttered to a stop.

" _It's Barton, he took out our systems. He's headed for the detention level. Does anybody copy?"_

Phil felt his chest clench. He'd tried not to think about the possibility of Clint being involved directly in the attack. He didn't want to imagine Clint facing off with the dozens of armed SHIELD agents intent on eliminating whatever threat they came across.

But now, hearing it confirmed, he suddenly couldn't move. Clint was headed for the detention level, no doubt to try and free Loki. Phil had been headed to that same detention level to stop Loki from escaping.

He couldn't make himself move.

He couldn't let Clint release Loki but…he didn't know if he could stop him either. It wasn't even just that he wouldn't be able to force himself to engage. He hadn't been able to beat Clint in a hand-to-hand battle in years. Ever since the archer had started training with Natasha, he'd far surpassed Phil's own combat ability. There was no physical way he could stop Clint.

He was suddenly painfully and acutely aware of the weight of the weapon in his hands.

But then, before Phil could contemplate just _what_ he would do if he came face-to-face with Clint – and was faced with the choice of stopping him or _not_ – another voice came across the comms.

" _This is Agent Romanoff. I copy."_

Phil felt feeling return to his legs.

 _Natasha_.

If anyone could head Clint off, could stop him from ever reaching the detention area, it would be her. Hell, if anyone had a chance of stopping Clint without the use of lethal force, it was her…maybe _only_ her.

She would find Clint. She would stop him.

* * *

_End of Chapter 7_

_So, there we are! The attack has begun! :O Brace yourselves!_

_You know by now that reviews are my drop of water in a dry desert. So drop me one, would you ;)_

_Same time, same place tomorrow. Until then, here's your preview:_

* * *

_"Do you like this?" he asked with a smirk. "We started working on the prototype after you sent the Destroyer. Even **I** don't know what it does. Do you wanna find out?"_

_Clint would have been proud. He always did love a good round of taunting, he'd have to tell-_

_"Ahhh!"_

_Pain erupted in his chest, spreading in a frozen wave._


	8. I'm Way Too Up to Back Down

_Disclaimer: I do not own "The Avengers" or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works. I do not claim any of the directly quoted lines from "The Avengers" as my own, they belong to Marvel and the writers._ _The cover art came from a google search with the original source being pinterest where it was credited to Anthony Genuardi._

 _Author's Note: While I embrace_ **_constructive_ ** _criticism, remember this old saying if you choose to leave a review "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all"_

* * *

_Today I started my journey to move from Texas back to Virginia with my son. We've been visiting family for the last several months while my husband is deployed. That being said, I will be posting updates from my phone and my ability to thank all reviewers will be severally crippled for the next few days. I appreciate every single one of you but it's either skip this part of the A/N or skip the whole chapter lol, and I think I know which one you'd all prefer. That being said, I'll answer all questions posed in reviews between now and when I arrive in Thursday's update._

_As is my custom, thank you to my beautiful betas_ **Kylen** _and_ **JRBarton** _for their undying support and beta-powers throughout this story._

_**Trigger warning!** Vague allusions to intended rape and abuse, nothing anywhere near explicit._

_On we go!_

* * *

_Last time in The Untold Stories:_

_**Natasha**._

_If anyone could head Clint off, could stop him from ever reaching the detention area, it would be her. Hell, if anyone had a chance of stopping Clint without the use of lethal force, it was her…maybe **only** her._

_She would find Clint. She would stop him._

* * *

_Only the dead have seen the end of war._  
**_Plato_ **

* * *

_April 13, 2012_  
_6:50 a.m.  
_ _Helicarrier_

* * *

Natasha held her knee tightly against her chest, mentally working to push aside the pain from whatever she'd done to it in the fall.

She was shaking. She couldn't stop shaking. She tightened her hands on her leg.

She'd always heard of the Hulk. She'd seen videos of his brutality. She'd been shown pictures of the devastation he left in his wake.

But _seeing_ him in person, _running_ from him… It didn't even compare.

Her system still surged with unspent adrenaline and she knew she needed to move. She couldn't just sit here or it would only get worse. She needed to channel the energy. She needed to focus.

But she _couldn't_. Her thoughts were scattered and she couldn't drag them back into line.

Vaguely, she heard a call come through about another engine going down.

Then, Fury's response, struck her to her core.

" _It's Barton, he took out our systems. He's headed for the detention level. Does anybody copy?"_

Everything snapped back into focus.

Clint.

She couldn't let someone else go after him. She couldn't risk anybody else shooting first and never bothering with questions at all.

And just like that, she felt the tremors start to fade. She reached for her comm.

"This is Agent Romanoff. I copy."

Then she gritted her teeth and pushed to her feet. She had a purpose now, a place to channel the adrenaline. She was going to find Clint. She was going to save him, no matter what it took.

She went high, into the bowls of the catwalks that Clint would have to pass through to get from the bridge to the detention center. She'd been briefly concerned that he would take to the vents, but had then decided that stealth wasn't exactly his main concern at the moment. Stealth had gone out the window the moment he'd blown up one of the engines.

Part of her had been prepared for this, deep down. She'd known on some level that she was going to have to face Clint at some point, Loki had promised as much. But now that the moment was here, now that she was stalking the shadows hunting for him…she couldn't help but feel a fissure of fear.

She was a killer, named the Black Widow for her excellence in that particular area. But killing Clint wasn't an option, would never be. She would rather die herself.

And if what Loki had promised was true, Clint would be bent on making that a reality.

They'd only truly been pitted against each other twice – in Paris and then again in Germany. He'd bested her in Paris, her recent rib injury giving him a weakness to exploit. But even then, with her death as his mission, he hadn't killed her. Germany had been different. He'd barely even fought back when she attacked. He'd done what he had to do to defend himself, but nothing more. His lack of conviction to do her harm had led to his swift defeat.

She deeply hoped that now – with years' worth of history and shared time between them – he would lack that same conviction. That whatever part of him had grown to care so deeply for her would be stronger than whatever hold Loki had on him.

A flash of movement caught her attention and she focused on it.

She drew in a breath sharply when she saw the source.

_Clint._

Her chest tightened at the sight of him, stalking across one of the catwalks below her. His walk was the same – that graceful predatory _stalk_ that he always used when he'd zeroed in on a target. He was lethal when he wanted to be. Despite what Loki might claim, he hadn't turned Clint into a killer. He'd been one all along. Loki had just unleashed that side of him. He'd stripped away the one thing that always kept that killer in check – Clint's heart. His _good_ , true, noble heart.

He was halfway across the catwalk now and she knew she had to move.

She drew in a fortifying breath, focused her mind to prepare for the upcoming battle.

One way or another, this was going to be over soon.

She moved.

* * *

Clint moved swiftly across the catwalk, senses stretched to their limit.

She'd be coming. He knew she would. He'd gone out of his way to show Fury where he was headed to make _sure_ she knew where to find him.

He slid under a large piece of duct work. That was when he felt it.

She was here, watching him from above.

Then as silent and graceful as the spider she was named for, she climbed down and towards him.

He could have fired on her then, but he didn't.

He wanted her close. He wanted to smell her blood, feel it on his hands.

Part of him knew that desire was out of place. How many lives had he taken since boarding the helicarrier? Too many to count. None of them had mattered. He hadn't felt a damn thing as he cut his way through the SHIELD agents sent to stop him. He had a mission, nothing would get in his way.

But she was different. With her, he _felt_ it. He _wanted_ it.

He should be questioning it, but he didn't.

Anticipation bubbled up as he sensed her draw closer. Without making a sound, she landed lightly behind him.

He smiled and turned, nocking an arrow and letting it fly before he'd even gotten his eyes on her.

She pushed his arm aside, sending the arrow sailing harmlessly by and tried to twist the bow from his grip. But his hands were made of steel, a lifetime of wielding a bow giving them strength that few could match.

He twisted it out of _her_ grip instead and spun, driving his boot into her shoulder.

He advanced, swinging his bow like a staff. He was pleased when she dodged his attack easily, kicking him back and disappearing over the side of the catwalk. She wouldn't make it easy for him. That was good. He didn't want it to be easy. The harder she fought, the more satisfying it would be to beat her.

And he _would_ beat her. He would destroy her in every way he could. And he would love every fucking minute of it.

He wasn't all that surprised when she popped up on the other side of the catwalk while he was still looking into the space she disappeared. The shot at his knee was painful, but easily ignored.

After that, it was instinct. She'd always been better at hand to hand than him and he'd need to call upon every dirty trick he knew to beat her. But he also had one very distinct advantage right now that she didn't have.

He wanted to see her dead and broken.

She wouldn't be willing to commit to the same fate for him.

And _that_ was a weakness he would exploit.

* * *

Natasha stumbled back, face stinging from taking the bow to her face, but trapping the string with her arms paid off because she felt a certain victory when she was able to spin away with the weapon in her possession. But when he pulled the knife – one of two she knew he always kept on his person – from the sheath, those feelings of momentary triumph bled away.

 _She'd_ given him that knife, after the whole mess with Alexi, it had been one of the many ways she'd tried to show him that she chose him…she wanted _him_.

Seeing him draw it, intent on using it against her…he might as well have already stabbed her.

* * *

_April 13, 2012_  
_7:00 am  
_ _Infirmary hall, Helicarrier_

* * *

Todd stopped at the corner, holding up a fist to stop the group of agents behind him.

They'd made it to the infirmary hall. The door was right around the corner. The small number of hostiles they'd encountered did nothing but assure him that the majority of them were already ahead of his team.

As if to prove his instinct true, he heard a barked order to 'take out the door'.

He keyed his radio and whispered into it.

"All teams, call out if you are in the infirmary hall."

He got a series of negative responses from all the teams. With a glance over his shoulder at his team, he nodded.

"Engage," he ordered quietly.

Almost as one unit, they rounded the corner, half going to their knees and the rest standing.

They dropped a number of them with that first wave of fire. The rest did exactly what Todd hoped they'd do, left the infirmary alone in favor of advancing on Todd and Echo team.

"Take cover!" Todd ordered sharply.

He slid back around the corner as the enemy started to return fire and the rest of Echo team did the same. Except one.

Jenner Stevenson.

His gun had jammed and he'd instinctively looked down at it instead of heeding the order to take cover. He was a new agent, freshly minted from training. Hadn't yet learned that when in combat, take cover first, worry about your weapon second.

So Todd did the only thing he could. He surged out from behind the wall, wrapped an arm around the smaller man's chest and spun back towards the corner. Gunfire had already erupted around them but even as they both fell into the waiting arms of two other Echo team agents, Todd felt the burn of lead cutting through him.

He distantly heard someone yell something about armor-piercing rounds, but he couldn't find the breath to confirm the call.

He hadn't been shot in years, not since he'd led his last mission that had ended with a team of dead agents and a long stay in the infirmary. Even as he fell, going first to his knees then getting caught by hands and lowered to the ground, he reflected that he wasn't sure how he'd managed to _forget_ how much it fucking hurt to get shot.

* * *

Dan gripped his gun tightly, listening to the battle rage right outside the infirmary doors. He glanced around, seeing the various personnel hiding behind overturned gurneys and the intake desk. The five of them with weapons were all hidden behind various forms of cover between the rest of the personnel and the door.

The gunfire and shouting continued until suddenly it stopped.

The eerie silence that followed was broken only by the sounds of his own harsh breathing and the pounding of his heart.

"Should someone go check?" Jake asked as he eased out from behind the shelf he'd moved out from the wall.

"Nobody move yet," Christine snapped sharply. Dan nodded his agreement.

"She's right. We don't know yet if it's our guys that won. We sit tight."

Another few moments of silence followed, but a sudden shout made all of them jump.

"HELP! We need some help!"

Jake immediately – instinctively – moved to heed the call, but Christine appeared at his side, catching his arm.

"You don't know who that is or which side he's on."

He ripped his arm out of her grip but nodded sharply.

Across the room Dan nodded as well. She was right. It could be a trap to lure them into opening the door.

Another shout came, this time from right outside the door.

"Doctor Webber! It's Agent Wallace! You treated my broken finger yesterday! We need help out here!"

Dan looked to Christine, who nodded.

"We're on our way!" Dan announced.

Christine turned, facing the other doctors, nurses and orderlies.

"Triage protocols people. Pair up in teams, make sure you have a radio."

Dan turned too, adding on his own instructions.

"Keep your eyes _open_. This is not over yet, get whoever you can _back in here_. If they can't be moved, stabilize them enough so they _can_ be. Got it?"

Everybody nodded, already moving to grab their kits and gather at the door.

"Jake, with me," Dan went to the head of the group and raised his weapon. Next to him, Jake did the same. "Be ready…if this was a trap…"

"I got it." Jake nodded firmly. "Just like paint balling with the boys back home … only hurts more."

Dan rolled his eyes slightly and reached for the door controls. The lock disengaged audibly and then he eased the door open, leading with his gun. All he saw at first was bodies. He pushed out farther, Jake at his shoulder and finally was able to turn and see the group of agents still standing.

He moved towards them, frowning at the way they were gathered around something…or someone.

An agent at the back nudged another one and nodded to Dan. After that they parted, almost as one, and gave him a clear view of whatever they were surrounding.

"Jesus…" Dan dropped his gun with a clatter, ignoring the way the agents in front of him all flinched at the action, and all but dove to the ground next to the downed agent. "Goddamnitall, Todd, what the hell did you do?" he demanded even as he shrugged out of his lab coat and balled it up, looking for the best place to apply pressure.

Todd swallowed thickly and the huffed a shocked, pain filled laugh.

"Goddamned armor-piercing rounds…" Todd shook his head slightly as if he couldn't quite believe it. Dan frowned, pressing his wadded coat onto one of the several wounds he could see, all to the torso. As far as he knew, the SHIELD-issued bullet-proof vests were near impenetrable, even to standard armor-piercing rounds.

As if reading his mind, an agent standing over his shoulder spoke up.

"Those were fucking SHIELD-issued weapons. Only our own armor-piercing rounds could have done that."

Dan shook his head. It made sense. Hadn't the infiltrators gotten their hands on SHIELD TAC gear?

"Jesus, Barton fucking sold us out," another agent scowled. That started a whole rumble of unrest that Dan just shook his head at and ignored. He leaned closer to Todd instead, eyes going to the young agent using his bare hands to put pressure on another of the wounds.

The young man's face was pale and his entire body visibly trembling. As if sensing Dan's gaze, the agent looked up with wide eyes.

"M-my gun jammed…I didn't…I should've…he broke cover, pulled me back…it's my fault." He looked down at Todd and swallowed. "I'm sorry."

If Todd had possessed the strength to scoff, Dan had no doubt he would have.

"Y' need t' lock that shit up, Stev'son." Todd swallowed thickly and then when he spoke again, his voice had grown even weaker, more slurred. "I m'ke m' own damn choices."

Dan looked at the wounds, shifting to hold his coat with one hand and use his bare hand to press down on another, trying to slow the blood loss as much as he could.

"Todd, shut the hell up," he ordered harshly, the logical side of his brain knowing that talking or not, it wasn't going to make a difference.

"Chris!" he shouted over his shoulder, "I need a hand over here! And somebody bring me a goddamned stretcher!" He turned back to Todd, resolutely pressing a little harder with his hands.

On the ground, Todd's nearest hand slowly shifted, pushing weakly at Dan's.

"Jus' stop…please, st'p…"

"You know I can't do that," Dan shot back sharply. He couldn't give up, wouldn't.

"We b'th know," Todd paused to cough wetly, red bubbling forth to stain his lips, "we b'th know h'w th's ends…"

Dan stared down at him, resisting the urge to push harder, to _try_ harder. When he went to speak, he found his throat so tight he could barely force the words out.

"As…" he paused, clearing his throat against the dryness suddenly there. "As I'm always telling Barton, shut the hell up and let _me_ be the doctor."

At the mention of Clint, Todd's expression tightened in a different kind of pain.

"You gotta tell 'm i's n't his fault…" his eyes cleared slightly and his voice grew stronger, "The pain in the ass will bl'me h'mself." His hand suddenly wrapped around Dan's wrist, squeezing with remarkable strength. "You tell him it's not his fault."

The effort cost him, because a moment later Todd squeezed his eyes shut, groaning loudly.

Dan nodded, unable to find the words to respond. He just hoped between him, Phil and Romanoff they'd actually be able to get Barton through to the other side of this mess. A hand landed on his shoulder, startling him.

"Doctor Wilson…" Christine's voice, always so fucking formal, sounded more empathetic than Dan had ever heard it. Her next words were something bordering on apologetic. "There are other wounded agents that need help."

The 'agents that can be saved' went unsaid but was still heard loud and clear.

"Go…" Todd's hand on his wrist released with a slight push. "I kn'w I didn' get 'm clear…I'll b…I'll be 'kay…"

It was a lie if Dan had ever heard one, but the doctor in him couldn't fight the urge to visually check over the young agent still hovering on Todd's other side. His expert eyes found the increasing dark stain on the agent's side almost immediately.

"Jesus Christ, don't they teach you kids anything these fucking days?" He instinctively reached for the source of the wound, shifting the agent to the ground. But even as he pushed him down, the agent suddenly tensed, fighting against him.

"No!" he shouted, but his eyes weren't on Dan, they were on Todd.

Dan knew, immediately. He closed his eyes for a long moment, and pulled in a breath.

_There but for the grace of God…_

Then he opened his eyes and used his full weight against the struggling agent.

"Stop. NOW. I need you to look at me."

But the agent shook his head, still trying to fight his way back to Todd's side.

"No! Help _him_! Do something!"

Dan pressed his hand harder against the agent's side, to get his attention.

"I _can't!"_ Saying the words physically hurt, but he forced himself to go on. "But I can help _you_." His voice sounded fierce even to his own ears, but he hoped that got him so obedience. "Now, LOOK. AT. ME."

Slowly the agent's gaze shifted to his, eyes wide and bright.

"He saved me…it's _my_ fault…"

Dan shook his head.

"Stop. Of all the people whose fucking fault this is, yours isn't even on the list. Now. Tell me your name."

"Jenner Stevenson." The reply was automatic, instinctive and carried no real emotion.

Dan nodded anyway and looked over his shoulder, forcing his gaze above and over the body next to them.

"Beth, pull the medical file for one Jenner Stevenson and then meet me in Surgery 1." He waited for Beth to jog back into the infirmary and then turned back to Stevenson. "So, Stevenson, ever had a bullet pulled before?"

The agent paled a little further and shook his head.

"I-I just graduated training last week."

Dan managed a sad smile and clapped the kid lightly on the shoulder.

"Welcome to SHIELD, kid."

* * *

_April 13, 2012_  
_7:10 am  
_ _Detention Center, Helicarrier_

* * *

Phil knew as soon as he got to the detention center that it had already been breached. The door standing wide open made it pretty obvious. He heard voices inside and quietly moved through the doorway. Loki was standing over near the cell controls and Thor was trapped inside, a spider web of cracks up at eye level on the glass. There was one more hostile between them, Phil crept up silently behind him.

"The humans think us immortal. Shall we test that?" Loki taunted his brother.

His hand moved towards the controls. Time to step in.

Phil hefted his weapon, slamming it into the back of the hostile's head so that he fell to the ground, unconscious.

"Move away, please," he instructed in his most diplomatic voice.

Loki stepped back sharply, looking a little surprised. Phil titled his chin at his weapon.

"Do you like this?" he asked with a smirk. "We started working on the prototype after you sent the Destroyer. Even _I_ don't know what it does. Do you wanna find out?"

Clint would have been proud. He always did love a good round of taunting, he'd have to tell-

"Ahhh!"

Pain erupted in his chest, spreading in a frozen wave.

"NO!" Thor shouted, but Phil barely heard him as Loki jerked the spear free from his back and let him fall. He hit the ground hard, falling to rest against the wall.

He gasped, refusing to relinquish his weapon, but unable to focus on anything but the ice racing through him. He had never known cold to hurt so much. The ice spread, encompassing every part of his body and as it did, Phil felt himself start to fade.

Memories were slipping through him, on his mind briefly before fading away to nothing. He felt like he was watching a movie – a movie of his life with Clint.

Maybe this is what they meant by your life flashing before your eyes at the moment of your death…his life had been nothing but Clint for almost nine years now. It seemed fitting that those were the memories on his mind as he faded away.

His attention was ripped away from the fleeting memories as he watched Thor suddenly fall, disappearing into open sky beneath them. He tightened his grip on the weapon and turned his eyes to Loki. The would-be king was looking at the space his brother had just occupied with a victorious little grin. Then, without a glance at Phil, he turned away.

"You're going to lose," Phil insisted suddenly, trying to delay him, keep him here until help arrived…or he got close enough for Phil to pull the trigger.

"Am I?" Loki asked with a patronizing air as he moved to face Phil, standing over him.

"It's in your nature."

Loki all but scoffed.

"Your heroes are scattered, your floating fortress falls from the sky. Where is my disadvantage?"

Phil quirked his lips.

"You lack conviction."

Loki frowned, sufficiently distracted.

"I don't think I – "

Phil fired the weapon, watching with meager satisfaction as it blasted Loki in the chest and sent him flying into and then through a wall.

He huffed.

"So that's what it does…"

After that, he waited. Help would come, too late probably, but it would come. For now he was alone…alone with the feeling of ice in his veins and a fleeting glimpse of a movie in his mind that he couldn't quite focus on anymore. He tried to bring the memories into focus, to embrace them and dwell on them. They felt so important, like they encompassed a large part of life, maybe his whole life.

But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't seem to grasp them.

* * *

_April 13, 2012_  
_7:12 am  
_ _Bowls of Helicarrier_

* * *

Clint grunted in pain when Natasha managed to twist his arm, feeling the bones in his shoulder grind together as she forced them out of alignment. Pain and he were old friends though, so it was an easy thing to ignore it. He tossed the knife up, turning to catch it with his free hand.

He almost had her. His goal was so close now that he could _taste_ it. Every part of his being wanted her blood on his hands, wanted her life ended brutally and violently. It drove him, that _want_.

He swung at her with the knife, fully expecting her to dodge. She didn't disappoint, latched onto his knife hand just like he'd anticipated she would. After that, it was an easy thing to manipulate her into a position where his strength would be his alley…and her enemy.

She could try to hold him off all she wanted, but he was stronger.

She tried to arch her head away, to protect her neck, but he locked his iron grip around the back of her head, fisting his hand in her hair and forcing her neck towards the blade of his knife.

The knife she'd given him.

The look in her eyes when he'd brandished it had been a sweet victory all on its own.

He had her now. All he had to do was push with his knife and pull her closer. He'd be able to cut her deep enough to be fatal, but not so much that she went quickly. It would be easy. The fight would be over and he could then take what every bloodthirsty part of him was demanding.

He drew in a sharp breath, almost impressed by the strength of her resistance, and her scent – vanilla, sweat and gunpowder – filled his nostrils, strengthening the intensity of his own desire.

He met her gaze. He expected to see fear. To see realization that she had lost, that he had beat her. He wanted to see the defeat in her eyes as he pushed the blade against her throat.

But instead…what he saw…it wasn't fear, it wasn't anything close.

It was…

For the barest of moments, it felt like the floor had dropped out beneath him. The connection to Loki that had become a constant pressure in his mind momentarily dimmed and the tiny flicker of defiance – that had been trapped in the deepest, darkest corner of his mind ever since Loki had re-established his dominance – flared to life.

He knew what that look in her eyes was now. It was the same look she _always_ had when she wanted to tell him the depth of everything she felt for him but couldn't find the words.

_Natasha._

But then like a rubber band that had been stretched and released, his connection to Loki strengthened again, brutally beating back the defiance and giving renewed power to his dark desires for her destruction.

But it was too late. She'd sensed his hesitation and grasped it like a lifeline.

Her teeth sunk into his arm.

He was momentarily stunned, not by the bite, the pain was fleeting, but by the bout of numbness that shot down his arm as a result. He didn't even have a chance to mount a defense before she was flipping over his arm, and spinning.

He saw the rail coming and tried to reach out, but wasn't quite fast enough. His forehead hit the metal with a resounding clang.

The rubber band of Loki's control, wrapped so tight around his mind for so long now, snapped.

In its absence, was nothing but pain, confusion and an overwhelming wealth of suppressed emotion.

He struggled to pull himself up from the ground with a groan. Finally, after failing that, he just braced his hands on the floor beneath him.

He couldn't think straight…he'd been…he'd been fighting?

He glanced around in confusion, trying to piece together the fractured pieces of shattered memory – cast asunder by the tidal wave of emotion still crashing through him.

Where…? Was this…? This was the Helicarrier. He remembered now, he'd been on the Helicarrier.

A presence loomed over him.

Even in his confusion, he knew that presence.

He looked up, facing her with a confused blink.

"Natasha?" he wasn't sure what he intended to say, but he never got the chance. Memories crashed back into him, piecing themselves together with dizzying speed. Him drawing her to him. Their fight. His dark, twisted desires.

_Oh, God…_

When her fist came flying towards his face, he welcomed the pain and embraced unconsciousness for the relief it brought him.

* * *

_April 13, 2012_  
_7: 17 am  
_ _Detention Center, Helicarrier_

* * *

The passage of time is a funny thing. Sometimes it can seem to drag on, minutes feeling like hours and hours feeling like years. But sometimes the opposite is true. Minutes can pass in seconds and years can go by in what feels like a matter of days, leaving you wondering where the hell all the time went.

And sometimes, if you were lucky, you would live your life in such a way where both felt irrevocably true. Where the good moments made time pass quickly, left you blinking in the face of years past. But where, at the same time, you could look back and see how _far_ you'd come in those years and that distance told you just how long those years had been, how hard you had fought to make it through each one.

Time didn't make sense to Phil.

Every day had 24 hours, didn't it? Every week, seven days? Every year, 52 weeks?

Time was uniform, should pass with that same uniformity. But it didn't.

As Phil sat slumped on the ground, the wall the only thing keeping him upright, with the director suddenly kneeling in front of him, he realized that time was a fickle little bitch.

These, which he was increasingly certain would be his last, minutes had passed like seconds as he tried to focus on the memories of the life he'd lived. But they had felt, at the same time, like they'd taken hours as he sat here alone, dying.

A fickle little bitch, time.

Fury's gaze was intense, that one eye carrying more weight than double that of a lesser man, but there was a rare hint of fear hidden in its dark depths.

"I'm sorry, boss," Phil felt compelled to explain his current situation. He, after all, wasn't prone to sustaining injury on a mission. And that's what this had been, in the end, a mission to stop Loki. "The god rabbited."

"Just stay awake," Fury commanded. When Phil tried to look away, the director's voice came back firmer, "Eyes on me."

Phil turned his gaze back to Fury's, meeting the intensity in that one dark eye with the fading life of his own.

"Oh, I'm clockin' out here." Maybe using a metaphor was too light, didn't allow the gravity a situation like death warranted. But saying the words, it felt like it would be an admission of defeat. Phil wasn't one to give up, even with words.

"Not an option." Fury's tone was insistent, demanding obedience. He was the director of SHIELD. He was used to be obeyed. He too, wasn't used to giving up…wasn't used to failure.

"It's okay, boss." Phil couldn't let this be a source of failure. They could use it, turn it in their favor. They'd brought together fireworks with the Avengers, with more than one match among them. They needed something to unite them, to give them a common cause. Apparently saving the world just wasn't enough when you had a guy who'd lost touch with that world for 70 years, a god who was from a _different_ one, a guy who hid from it, and a guy who could barely be bothered with it. "This was never gonna work…if they didn't have something…to…"

Time faded, Phil realized. It was something he'd never known until now, as his lungs refused to draw in air again…time could choose a moment to cease to exist all together…to just end.

* * *

_April 13, 2012_  
_7:18 am  
_ _Bowels of Helicarrier_

* * *

Natasha watched Clint closely, looking for anything to suggest that his lack of consciousness was an act. But he didn't twitch, barely seemed to even be breathing. She knelt cautiously at his side, pressing her index and forefinger to his neck, feeling for a pulse.

She found it easily. It was hard to miss. His heart was pounding so hard and fast she was suddenly concerned about more than just his mental health. She lowered her cheek to his mouth, feeling the rate of his breaths on her skin. It was erratic at best.

She rested her palm on his chest and looked up and around. She caught site of a team headed her way. She waved them closer when the lead agent spotted her.

"Get him to the infirmary," she ordered sharply. When they neared and saw just _who_ she was kneeling over, they collectively hesitated. She felt her expression harden. " _Now_!"

A few of them jumped at her tone, never having been exposed to her Black Widow side. But the lead agent just nodded and motioned a few of his guys to come forward and do as she'd asked.

She stood and backed out of the way when they stooped to get a grip.

He'd recognized her. She was sure of it. Not in a delusion, not through the haze of Loki's control, but honest-to-God recognized her. He'd said her name, said it like he always did…like she was _everything_ to him in that moment. There was no faking that, not with her. The tones of her name on his lips was something she knew better than anything else in the world. He was still in there.

She was distracted abruptly by the director's voice over the comms.

" _Agent Coulson is down."_

Her breath left her in a rush and she turned slightly away from Clint and the agents, as if Clint would know what was happening if she was facing him.

" _A medical team is on its way to your location."_ A nameless agent announced, but Fury spoke almost as soon as the agent finished.

" _They're here."_ Natasha held her breath, waiting for more. _"They called it."_

Her eyes closed of their own accord, a pain so deep reverberating through her chest that she couldn't breathe.

 _Phil_.

Her hands clenched into fists, her nails biting into her skin as the pain settled deeper, weighing her down and nearly bringing her to her knees.

He couldn't be gone, not just like that. Not like _this_.

Phil was _family_ and for her, family was rare. He couldn't just be…

Her jaw tightened as she fought for control, fought to lock down the emotion threatening to tear her down.

Natasha wished in that moment, with everything she had, that she wasn't the Black Widow. That she wasn't expected to be unshakeable and infinitely strong.

Because all she wanted to do was go to her knees and scream. She wanted to let her pain take over and let it _out_. She wanted…

A thud behind her brought her focus back abruptly.

And all at once her own pain faded to the background.

She turned, eyes seeking out Clint's lax features as the agents lifted his torso from the ground.

_Clint._

Whatever she felt right now, whatever pain this loss brought to her, it wouldn't compare to the absolute devastation it would bring to _him_. Whatever Phil was to her, he was _more_ to Clint.

She watched the agents start to drag him down the catwalk, his boots bumping along behind them. Something in her snapped at the careless treatment and every protective instinct she had for her archer flared to life. She felt new resolve solidify in her gut, resolve to focus on Clint, to push aside her own pain and focus on his. It was what she did. It was what _he_ would have done. It was why they had each other.

"Be careful!" she snapped as she stalked after them. Obediently, perhaps sensing the razor's edge she was on, another agent fell in at Clint's feet and picked them up, carrying him now instead of dragging him.

She followed after them, eyes fixed on Clint's face. With hands fisted tightly at her sides, she poured her energy into controlling her emotions and her focus into planning how to deal with his.

This would break him. He would _let_ it. After what happened with the attack on the New York base two years ago, she knew that to be a fact. The promise he'd made to Phil wouldn't matter. _Nothing_ would matter, not any more. Clint wouldn't know how to survive this.

Somehow, she'd have to show him he could. And more importantly, she'd have to convince him to _want_ to _._

* * *

_End of Chapter 8_

_*sobs in the corner* if you think that was rough, just wait till Clint finds out! And it's not even just Phil...TODD! *SOBS* If you can see through your tears, drop me a line. And if you can't, well...just drop me a line of gibberish._

_Until tomorrow, let this preview sustain you:_

* * *

_Clint came awake with a gasp, pulling hard against whatever was holding him down. He looked around wildly, trying to recognize the room, trying to piece together fractured memories. His muscles strained to break his arms free from their confinement._

_"Clint, you're gonna be all right."_

_His head snapped around at the voice, instincts raging to the forefront in an attempt to gauge the threat._

_A woman sat across the room, watching him with concerned eyes._

_He knew her…maybe…he thought he did…_


	9. It's Time to Exorcise These Demons

_Disclaimer: I do not own "The Avengers" or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works. I do not claim any of the directly quoted lines from "The Avengers" as my own, they belong to Marvel and the writers._ _The cover art came from a google search with the original source being pinterest where it was credited to Anthony Genuardi._

 _Author's Note: While I embrace_ **_constructive_ ** _criticism, remember this old saying if you choose to leave a review "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all"_

* * *

_Thank you to all who reviewed! I'm still travelling cross country and its all I can do to get updates posted from my phone. I appreciate every one of you and will reply to questions in Thursday's update!_

_Shout out to those that have guessed the song inspiration for the chapter titles:_

_You can guess the song up until I tell you what it is in the final chapter!_

_Continued thanks to my wonderful betas_ **Kylen** _and_ **JRBarton** _for their wonderful support and beta-powers throughout this story._

_**Trigger warning!** Allusions to intended rape and abuse, nothing anywhere near explicit._

_Soldier forth!_

* * *

_Last time in The Untold Stories:_

_This would break him. He would let it. After what happened with the attack on the New York base two years ago, she knew that to be a fact. The promise he'd made to Phil wouldn't matter. **Nothing** would matter, not any more. Clint wouldn't know how to survive this._

_Somehow, she'd have to show him he could. And more importantly, she'd have to convince him to **want** to._

* * *

_I hate war as only a soldier who has lived it can, only as one who has seen its brutality, its futility, its stupidity._  
**_Dwight D. Eisenhower_ **

* * *

_April 13, 2012_  
_7:30 am  
_ _Infirmary, Helicarrier_

* * *

Dan, decked out now in his surgical gear, was just moving to push into the scrub room when he heard a sudden scuffle coming from the area the infirmary entrance was located. He almost ignored it. He had a young agent waiting to have a bullet removed and surely Christine could handle whatever was happening _now_.

They'd been hit with an influx of agents almost immediately after they'd waded out into the mayhem that had taken place right outside the infirmary doors. He had nothing but hearsay reports of the current situation. He didn't usually wear a comm, as it tended to distract him from doing his job with its constant chatter. His hand-held radio had gone missing sometime during the chaos. But what he'd gathered summed up to something in the range of FUBAR. It was SHIELD though, so what else was new?

As it was, Jenner Stevenson had been waiting to have the bullet in his side removed for too long already.

Dan started to push into the scrub room again, only this time was halted by a voice. A voice he knew.

"Back up!" _Romanoff_.

Without thought, Dan started down the hall back to the main area.

"I said _back up!"_ She was practically snarling like a lioness protecting her cub.

Dan exited the hallway to find that assessment wasn't so far off. She _was_ a lioness protecting something, all right.

Her mate.

Clint was laid out on a gurney, head titled to the right and giving Dan an easy view of his drawn, but lax features. Natasha, at the moment, was practically standing guard over him, squaring off with a set of armed agents.

Dan's relief at seeing Barton alive and…present at least, was short lived when the agents both took a step forward.

"We have orders to take Barton into custody. He is to be remanded into maximum security detention until his status can be confirmed."

"His _status_ is unconscious," Natasha spat back. "Not a lot of harm he can do that way. He needs medical attention."

Dan took that as his cue and moved forward even as the agent opened his mouth to argue.

"Natasha." Her attention swiveled to him only to jump back to the armed agents a breath later. "You know the rules."

"He won't hurt anybody else," she defended sharply.

"Maybe not, but rules are rules." And Dan really didn't need the headache her taking down these two agents would bring. "You can stay with him."

He glared at the agents when one of them opened his mouth to argue that. The agent's mouth snapped shut when his partner elbowed him, which showed Dan at least one of them had some common fucking sense. Seriously, who would be stupid enough to bait the Black Widow – especially concerning _Hawkeye_?

Dan sighed once, very loudly.

"Look." Natasha's gaze slid back to his. "I'll go with you too and look over him myself." Her gaze switched to searching for any signs of deceit. He locked down the urge to roll his eyes, and tried not to be offended. It'd been a shit-long couple of days.

When she finally nodded – once, sharply, a jab of her chin – Dan looked back to the agents.

"Then everybody's happy and nobody gets hurt…we good?"

The agents shared a look and then nodded.

Dan nodded in return and moved to join Natasha at Clint's side.

"Beth, get Webber and have her scrub in on Stevenson. Jake, grab a kit, you're with me." Dan tossed the order over his shoulder and a moment later he felt the presence of the orderly at his side.

Jake pushed the gurney from the behind and Natasha helped steer it from her position at its side, leaving Dan's hands free to work.

"Tell me what you know," Dan directed at Natasha as she walked on the opposite side of the gurney, a hand wrapped around Clint's – for her sake or his, Dan wasn't sure.

"His heart is racing," she answered even as Dan reached for Clint's other wrist himself, eyeing his watch as he counted. 120…not good, not for someone like Barton, whose resting heart rate was around 65.

"Tachycardic…it's at 120," Dan told Jake, who used one hand to keep pushing the gurney and the other to write down the number on the chart he'd rested on Clint's legs.

"What else?" He could find out all this information himself, but he needed to keep Natasha busy for all their sakes.

"His breathing was fast and shallow…I had to knock him out, so he might have a concussion."

Dan nodded, using his penlight to check Clint's eye response. Of course, unequal pupils, why _wouldn't_ it be the hard way? He'd have to throw around some weight to get Barton in for a CT scan before long.

They slowed as the detention area came into view. They moved past the open door that held the cell they'd built for the Hulk, but Dan didn't offer the room even a cursory glance. There was a swarm of activity in there already, and he had his own problem to focus on. Natasha, he noticed, didn't take her eyes off Clint either, but her hand on the archer's wrist tightened.

Before long, after getting hands scanned and IDs checked, they were all crammed into a tiny isolation cell – number 31-F. Jake helped Dan get the gurney locked into place and then Dan got to work.

"How long has he been out?"

Natasha, now hovering around Clint's head, answered immediately.

"Maybe ten minutes."

Dan nodded, strapping a blood pressure cuff onto Barton's bicep.

"Jake, go get me a liter of Ringers and a set of restraints. If he comes back around, we'll be better safe than sorry."

Natasha opened her mouth to protest, but then closed it just as quickly. Dan figured she understood. She _had_ knocked Clint out for what he suspected was the same reason.

Jake turned to leave, but Dan caught his arm.

"And find me Agent Coulson, he'll want to be here."

"Wait." Natasha's voice froze them both. Dan turned back to her. He'd never heard her use that tone before…it was almost… _lost_. "You can't get Phil."

Dan frowned at her.

"Why the hell not?" He'd want to be here, no matter what the hell had happened on this damned flying ship of theirs.

She lowered her gaze to Clint's face even as she replied, her words blunt and harsh.

"Because Phil's dead." She swallowed, her hand shifting to rest lightly on the hair of Clint's temple before she withdrew it. She raised her gaze back to Dan's, "Loki killed him."

Dan blinked at her, not quite able to process what she'd just told him. It wasn't – it just couldn't be _true_. But the horribly serious and devastated look in her eyes told him it was.

He looked from her, down to Barton, then swayed backward, hitting the wall with a dull thud.

"Fuck."

He felt his eyes immediately start to burn and his chest tighten painfully. Phil was gone. Phil fucking Coulson was _dead_ …after all of this, after everything…he was just…

Dan looked down and away trying to rationalize this revelation in both his heart and mind. He didn't know how to do it though. Phil had been one of his two closest friends. The man had _recruited_ him, for Christ's sakes. Now he was dead…and Todd was dead. Dan was the only one left.

It wasn't supposed to end like this.

"He doesn't know." Natasha's voice drew him out of his devastated thoughts. He raised his eyes to her and saw her shift her gaze back to Clint meaningfully and then looked first at Dan then Jake. "He _can't_ know. Not right now."

Dan barely managed to nod. She was right. He looked to Jake, saw him nodding too.

"Go get the Ringers and restraints, Jake." The orderly slid out of the room without further prompting, leaving Dan alone with SHIELD's deadliest duo.

"He knew me," Natasha stated abruptly, changing the subject without warning. Dan looked at her in time to see her lightly resting her hand on Barton's forehead. "Just before I knocked him out, it was like a fog lifted and he _knew_ me."

Dan nodded weakly, still leaning back against the wall, tried to grasp the thread of hope she was offering. But he couldn't quite manage it, not when everything else was so, _so_ fucked up.

"Todd's gone too."

His blunt reveal earned him a wide eyed look of shock before she looked down and away, hiding her gaze by focusing on Clint's face instead.

"How?" Dan told himself he didn't hear the tremble in her tone. He told himself she was the Black Widow. She was unshakeable. He had to believe that right now. One of them had to be strong.

"Defending the infirmary," Dan shook his head, "saving another agent." It was a fitting death, he supposed. Todd Bryan had dedicated his life to protecting agents in the best way he could, by _training_ them, preparing them to do their jobs and do them well.

Natasha just nodded, still not looking at him. Dan let his head rest back on the metal wall for a moment and then blew out a slow breath. He reached up to rub a hand across his eyes.

God…how was it that he was the only one of them left standing?

They'd been friends since the beginning. He and Todd had come up through training together and Phil had been waiting for them on the other side. From there, the friendship had been natural and easy.

Now he felt like he was missing two of his limbs.

A faint whisper, too soft for him to decipher, had him drawing his head forward, searching for the source.

It was Natasha, forehead pressed against Clint's, mouth moving with words he didn't understand.

They needed him, both of them, two people he never thought would need anyone but … but Phil.

_Phil…_

God.

Time to get his shit together.

He pushed off the wall with a sigh.

"You say he recognized you?"

She nodded.

"He'd hit his head and then when he looked at me, he said my name." She sighed slightly, her eyes distant as if remembering that moment. "I _know_ something changed…but I knocked him out because…well, if it was a fluke, we're all safer this way."

Dan nodded. Never a truer statement.

"We'll get him sorted out. I'll treat what I can see and then I'll get him in for a CT to check that hard head of his." Dan reached to squeeze her shoulder, hesitated, then completed the gesture.

She didn't even acknowledge him, just kept her gaze on Clint.

Dan sighed. The best thing he could do for her, for _Clint_ , was to treat him.

At least _that_ he could actually help with.

* * *

 _April 13, 2012_  
_9:45 a.m. NYT  
_ _Isolation Room 31-F, Maximum Security Wing, Helicarrier_

* * *

Natasha sat on the floor against the metal wall, knees pulled up to her chest and elbows braced on them. Her hands were threaded into her hair and her eyes pinned on the writhing form on the bed across the small room from her.

It had been more than two hours. Two hours since Dan had stuck Clint with an IV, and told her all they could do was wait. He'd managed to get clearance for a CT scan about 45 minutes after that but Natasha hadn't seen Dan since. She supposed he was needed elsewhere and there wasn't anything more that could be done for Clint at the moment.

She'd spent the first hour staring at Clint's face, waiting for signs of life. She'd studied every inch of him that she could see. His face was practically gaunt, exhaustion lining his features even as he slept. There was bruising, hidden under the line of his jaw, like someone had wrapped their hand around his throat and exerted extreme pressure. His wrists were bruised, dark handprints speaking to fierce restraint at some point. Beyond that, there was little damage she could see. But his torso was covered and she knew the worst of it would be hidden anyway, hidden where no one would be able to see it but Clint.

When her vigil yielded no results, she prowled the room.

It was nicer than the max-sec cells back on the New York base. It actually had its own very small, very basic bathroom. Though all it really contained was a toilet, single ply toilet paper, a sink with only cold water, an automated soap dispenser and one thin, scratchy hand towel. It was basic, but it would do.

After that, there wasn't anything she could do but wait.

The tremors had started just at the 75-minute mark – she knew because she'd been counting – and had steady developed into full body writhing since. Dan had warned her this could happen. That Clint's body, for all intents and purposes, was reacting like a drug addict going into withdrawal. He had to ride it out.

So Natasha had to ride it out too.

But waiting meant thinking. It meant thinking about Phil.

She shifted her hands down to cover her eyes, shaking her head. She knew she couldn't tell Clint. Not while Loki was still in play. The last thing any of them needed was one of SHIELD's deadliest assassins going on a revenge rampage.

Of course there was no guarantee that he'd be able to even remember his own name when he finally came out of whatever nightmare he was trapped in right now – and judging by the way he kept calling her and Phil's names it was a _bad_ one.

If he _did_ though, if he was functional and able, they needed him in this fight. He very well might be the piece of the puzzle that had been missing to make the Avengers complete – to make them work.

That meant she had to lie, right to his face. She had to make him believe that all was well, that Loki was his biggest problem.

Just the thought left a bitter taste in her mouth. She'd promised him after Alexi that she'd never lie to him again. She didn't _want_ to. With everything she had, she _didn't want to lie_. But she knew she didn't have a choice. She knew that the moment Clint knew what had happened, knew what Loki had done…he'd want blood. And if Loki was still out there, was within Clint's reach, she didn't think she'd be able to stop him.

And while Loki breathing his last sounded _damned_ appealing, she had to be realistic. Loki was practically a _god_. Even at his best, Clint might not be strong enough to take him down. And right now…his best was lightyears away.

So she would lie. To save his life, to give the Avengers the last piece of the puzzle the team needed, to keep him from carrying that darkness of a revenge kill for the rest of his life…she would lie.

Somehow. He knew her better than anyone, it would be the hardest sell she ever attempted. But she would do it. Because lying was her trade. It was a skill she had perfected.

She just never thought, not since that first night in Paris, that she would ever use it on him.

She pulled her hands away from her eyes again and lifted her gaze to him. Watching him thrash, straining against the restraints so fiercely she started to worry he might pull something out of socket.

"Come back, мой ястреб," she whispered to the quiet room. _(my hawk.)_

* * *

_He had her now, had her neck trapped with one hand and the knife bearing down with the other. She tried to push him back, tried to fight him off, but she wasn't strong enough. He forced the knife closer, scratching the skin of her neck and drawing a thin line of blood._

" _Clint…" she gasped, but he ignored her, driving her backwards until her back hit the catwalk rail. It gave him the leverage he needed to bear down harder._

_The cut on her neck was deep, but it hadn't hit the jugular, he hadn't wanted it to._

_He'd just wanted her to_ _**bleed** _ _._

_The tangy scent of copper surrounded him, intoxicating him and leaving him yearning for more. Mixed with it was something so familiar – vanilla…vanilla, gunpowder and sweat._

_Something dark swept through him, a brutal, violent desire._

_He wanted her. He wanted her_ _**now** _ _._

_He jerked her around by the grip he had on the back of her neck and then threw her to the ground. When she tried to push herself up he brought his closed fist into her cheek, sending her back down. She tried again, but he kicked her hands out from under her._

_He hooked his boot on her shoulder and flipped her onto her back, descending to straddle her waist and catching both her hands as she tried to hit him. Trapping her hands within one of his was easy, his grip was strong – too strong to be broken._

_He pinned her arms above her head and ran his eyes over her hungrily._

" _Clint, you gotta hear me," she pleaded, voice weak and blood bubbling in her mouth, "Please…I know you're still in there. I know you didn't let him win."_

_He ignored her and she bucked, trying to throw him off. He tightened his legs, digging his knees into her hips to keep her in place._

" _Clint…"_

_He snapped the back of his hand across her mouth to silence her._

" _Shut up," he commanded. "Don't say another fucking word."_

_Fear filtered into her eyes. Finally, she was giving him what he wanted. What he needed._

_He reached for the belt on her uniform and she squirmed, trying uselessly to loosen his hold._

" _Clint…don't…"_

_Don't._

Clint came awake with a gasp, pulling hard against whatever was holding him down. He looked around wildly, trying to recognize the room, trying to piece together fractured memories. His muscles strained to break his arms free from their confinement.

"Clint, you're gonna be all right."

His head snapped around at the voice, instincts raging to the forefront in an attempt to gauge the threat.

A woman sat across the room, watching him with concerned eyes.

He knew her…maybe…he thought he did…

"You know that?" he spat defensively, "Is that what you know?"

The woman moved, coming closer.

Fiery red hair…he met her gaze, full of concern and…something else…

He knew her…He…

It fell back into place then, everything from the last several days.

_Natasha._

_Loki._

Was he still in his head?

"I got no window. I have to flush him out…" he muttered mostly to himself. If Loki was still there, if he was still in his head, Clint had to go to battle. He had to force him out once and for all, now, while he still had control.

Natasha slowly poured water into a cup but he barely noticed.

"You gotta level out," she explained carefully. "It's gonna take time."

Clint dropped his head back onto the bed. He didn't feel Loki anymore. The pressure – the agonizing pressure – that had been his constant companion the past few days was gone. Loki…maybe he was gone too.

But if he wasn't…maybe it was a trick. Loki was the master of tricks…maybe…

 _Jesus_ , he couldn't _think_.

"You don't understand." He stared up at the ceiling. "Have you ever had someone take your brain and play? Pull you out and stuff something else in?" He shifted his gaze up so he could see her. "Do you know what it's like to be unmade?"

Natasha shifted the cup in her hand, obviously thinking, remembering.

He wanted to take it back, to withdraw the question. He _knew_ she did. He knew every dirty detail about the Red Room now. He knew what Victor had done to her in Germany.

"You know that I do," she replied quietly.

Clint hated himself for reminding her. He closed his eyes and drew in a breath, grasping at his thoughts and forcing them into line.

He checked once more for Loki…but he was gone. Clint was certain of it now.

He was _gone_.

"Why am I back?" he asked, confused. "How did you get him out?"

He hadn't done it himself, he knew he hadn't. Loki's grip had been too tight this time. It had to have been her.

Natasha moved to sit on the bed at his hip.

_He had her now, had her neck trapped with one hand and the knife bearing down with the other. She tried to push him back, tried to fight him off, but she wasn't strong enough. He forced the knife closer, scratching the skin of her neck and drawing a thin line of blood._

" _Clint…" she gasped, but he ignored her, driving her backwards until her back hit the catwalk rail. It gave him the leverage he needed to bear down harder._

The memory came out of nowhere and it took everything he had not to flinch away from her. He thanked his lucky stars that she was looking down, hadn't seen the horror he'd felt wash across his face.

"Cognitive recalibration." At his blank look, she offered him a teasing grin. "I hit you really hard in the head."

He didn't return the grin, didn't even crack his usual smirk. She'd saved him. He'd been trying to kill her – he'd been trying to do _worse_ than kill her…and she'd saved him anyway.

"Thanks," he offered quietly, sincerely.

She gave him another smile, this one warmer and full of more meaning. That smile told him she would do it again in a heartbeat. That she'd always do whatever it took to save him. It told him that he was still everything to her, even after all that he'd done.

She reached for the restraints on his wrists and he bit back the urge to stop her. Loki was gone. Clint wasn't a threat anymore…he _wasn't_.

But if that were true, why did he still feel like the enemy? Why did he feel like everyone would be a hell of a lot safer if she just left the restraints where they were?

He knew why. He still had a tight knot in his gut, a deep fear that Loki's control would tighten around his mind again. That he wasn't free. That he was _still_ the same threat he'd become the moment he forcefully boarded the carrier.

Broken memories of that violent rampage came to him in flashes, images of agents falling at his hand as he tore his way through their ranks. How many? He didn't even know.

"Natasha," her gaze rose to his immediately, "how many agents did I…?"

"Don't," she scolded immediately, eyeing him seriously. "Don't do that to yourself, Clint. This is Loki. This is monsters and magic and nothing we were ever trained for."

"Loki." Clint couldn't quite keep the murderous rage out of his voice, didn't really try. "He get away?"

"Yeah. I don't suppose you know where?" She sounded so hopeful, he hated that he was letting her down. Letting everyone down.

"Didn't need to know."

She stood, turning no doubt to hide her disappointment.

"Didn't ask," he added.

It had just been that simple. While Loki had frolicked in _his_ brain like a fucking prancing pony, Clint hadn't been given the same opportunity. God, if he'd just had the chance to wield the same power over that _bastard_ that Loki had wielded over him.

He pulled his legs over the edge of the stretcher and reached for the water she'd poured.

"He's gonna make his play soon though. Today." Somehow he kept his tone level, close to normal even.

It spoke to Natasha's distraction that she didn't notice his struggle. She moved to the door instead, looking out the window. He could almost see the resolve settle tangibly in her shoulders.

"We gotta stop him," she stated firmly.

On a normal day, he'd spout something about her having a mouse in her pocket, or what army she had hiding and where she was hiding it.

Today wasn't normal. He didn't have it in him to even pretend it was.

"Yeah? Who's we?"

She turned back to him, tossing her arms up helplessly.

"I don't know. Whoever's left."

Clint nodded slightly, working the muscle of his jaw, and hoped the tremor in his voice wasn't as obvious to her as it was to him.

"Well," he swallowed, his brain playing the last few days like a movie in his head – crystal clear and in perfect color, "if I put an arrow through Loki's eye socket I would sleep better, I suppose."

He worked his jaw again, as more and more of the past few days filtered in.

 _Jesus_ …what had he _done?_

Natasha moved to sit next to him and he almost recoiled. She was too relieved at his comment to notice though, and smiled instead.

"Now you sound like you."

He scoffed a little. She had no idea, _no idea_.

"But you don't," he fired back immediately, hoping to keep her from studying him too closely. "You're a spy, not a soldier. Now you want to wade into a war? Why?" He stared hard at her for a moment. "What did Loki do to you?"

If he'd done _anything_ …being a god wouldn't matter. Clint would kill him.

"He didn't," she denied instead, "I just…" she trailed off, shifting her jaw and looking away.

His own worries and issues faded away as he looked at her. Loki had done something…he'd said something…

" _How should I best her?"_

" _Use me."_

The memory hit him hard. God, had he done _this_ too?

"Natasha," he said her name quietly, full of…everything – what he felt for her, understanding, pleading…apology.

She wouldn't look at him and her voice was stiff when she finally replied.

"I've been compromised." He was the one to look away now. He'd given himself to Loki as a tool to use against her and Loki had. He'd compromised her.

He felt her gaze shift to him, felt her picking herself up and moving on.

"I got red in my ledger. I'd like to wipe it out."

She wanted to wade into this fight. She wanted redemption. Maybe this would give it to her, would give her that peace. If it would, if this is what she needed, he'd do it with her. He'd fight beside her.

Hell, maybe he needed this too. He may never be at peace with his own past, may never feel like he'd wiped his own slate clean, but what he'd done for Loki? He could try to make _that_ right. He could do his part to put an end to the son of a bitch and hope that would be enough.

Enough for everyone else…even if not for him.

He met her gaze.

"I get it."

They both still had sins to atone for, they had red to wipe out. So they would do this. They would fight in a war between gods and super humans and hope that tipped the scales of their souls a little bit farther in the right direction.

"And you're right. We need to do this. _I_ need to do this…I need to make it right in whatever way I can."

Natasha shook her head.

" _You_ don't _have_ anything to make right. It was Loki, Clint… _Loki_."

Clint just blew out a sigh and shook his head in return. She didn't get it. She didn't know how _aware_ he'd been. How much of this was _his_ fault, his idea. He glanced towards the door, suddenly wondering where his mother hen of a handler was.

"Where's Phil?"

When Natasha didn't answer right away, he swung his gaze back to her. She met his eyes easily.

"He's with Fury," she told him simply. "He came by when you were still out. He wanted to stay but…"

Clint nodded, eyes shifting to focus on the wall.

_But._

But Clint had led an enemy attack on the carrier and left a shit load of chaos and death in his wake.

"Yeah, makes sense…" Phil probably had his hands full. "I probably left quite the mess to clean up."

Natasha sighed like he was being purposefully dense about something.

"It was _Loki_ , Clint. He literally took over your mind. It's not like you had a choice."

Maybe not. Maybe it hadn't been a choice. But did that make it better? Did that change the outcome? It didn't. At the end of the day, it had still been _him_ leading the charge. _Him_ offering up the plan.

For several moments they sat in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. When Clint finally spoke, his voice was quiet. He had to try and make her understand. He wasn't letting himself off the hook, he wouldn't let anybody else do it either. Not until he made it right.

"It _was_ me, Natasha. It was my face those agents saw leading the enemy onto the carrier. It was my face a lot of them saw as they died. I can't just let that go."

Natasha sighed again.

"You remember that? Boarding the carrier?"

He frowned slightly, eyes still pinned on the opposite wall.

_He drew back the bow string to his cheek, feeling the wind swirl around him. He gauged the distance to the carrier engine, calculated the speed of the wind, the trajectory…he shifted his aim…and fired._

"Clint?"

He blinked, coming back to the present. Natasha was watching him in concern, he could feel her eyes on his profile.

"Hey, you okay?" she asked softly.

He scoffed, though it came out sounding something close to a gutted breath and lacked the sarcasm he'd been hoping to communicate.

"I'm fine." His voice was steady enough in the lie, but he could practically feel her worry increase anyway.

She leaned into him with her shoulder, drawing his gaze back to hers.

"Bullshit." She said it with a small, warm grin to take out any bite.

He answered with a grin of his own, albeit a weak one. She was trying so damn hard. He couldn't leave her twisting in the wind.

"I'm _getting_ to fine?" he offered instead.

She nodded slightly.

"Better." She studied him for a moment, then slowly asked, "So what _do_ you remember?"

He stared right back at her…and lied.

"Nothing."

He didn't know why he did it. Why suddenly he didn't want her to know that he remembered everything. Maybe he didn't want questions, didn't want to explain the horrible, painful details of the past few days – how many days had it even been?– didn't want her looking at him like he was as broken as he felt.

"Nothing?" she questioned doubtfully, sensing the lie. "You were just talking about storming the carrier. You knew Loki was making his move today. You remember _something_."

He shrugged a shoulder, mind working quickly to come up with an explanation.

"It's fading, all of it. The longer I focus on it, the less I remember clearly. Probably part of the 'leveling out' you mentioned."

He didn't hold her gaze, shifted a glance towards he bathroom instead. He felt dirty all of the sudden, like he needed to scrub himself clean. Was that even possible? He felt like he'd never be clean again.

Natasha studied him for several long moments, but he kept his gaze averted. He hoped she blamed it on his ordeal, hoped she didn't push.

"What's the last thing you _do_ remember?" She seemed to buy the lie for now at least.

He pushed to standing, wavered when the world tilted around him, and then caught his balance before she could move to steady him.

He answered her question to distract her and waited for the room to stop swimming around him.

"The tesseract room…with Fury." Seemed like a good spot to claim, it was when this whole mess started when Loki had…he shook his head slightly, trying to banish the memories.

Natasha stared up at him from the gurney.

"Clint, that was two days ago."

He turned to look down at her. Days had passed without meaning when he was with Loki. He'd been underground for a lot of it and traveling at night for even more.

"Two days ago? What day is it?"

"Friday."

Jesus…Loki had had him for over two days. It had seemed so much longer, it had seemed like _years_. The world tilted dangerous again and he staggered, hand flying out and looking for something to ground him, to keep him from just going down.

A warm, strong hand braced against his ribs and another wrapped against his bicep.

The smell of vanilla, sweat and gunpowder filled his senses.

_The tangy scent of copper surrounded him, intoxicating him and leaving him yearning for more. Mixed with it was something so familiar – vanilla…vanilla, gunpowder and sweat._

_Something dark swept through him, a brutal, violent desire._

_He wanted her. He wanted her_ _**now** _ _._

He jerked away from her, the contact was too much. When it had just been a brush of the shoulder, he could handle it, could keep his instinct to pull away in check.

But she was too close… _too close_.

He retreated a stumbled step and she just stared at him, eyes wide with shock and hurt at the unexpected withdrawal. A moment later she crossed her arms over her chest and lifted her chin, intent, no doubt, to soldier on. She fixed him with a weighted, analytical glare.

"Did you sleep?"

She was looking for an explanation, for a reason he was so on edge.

Had he slept? He didn't think so.

"Or eat?" she went on.

He eyed the slight tremor that had settled in his hands and just shrugged.

"Don't know…don't think so, doesn't feel like it."

And it didn't. He felt weak and exhausted – like a strong wind would just make him come apart and shatter into pieces on the ground.

" _I will break you and leave you shattered on the ground."_

He felt his whole body tense, felt Natasha tense in response. Then she sighed and nodded towards the bathroom.

"Why don't you take a minute? I can get you food and with any luck maybe you can grab some shut eye before the other shoe drops."

Clint grunted noncommittally and headed into the small bathroom, welcoming the escape, the place to hide.

"Sleep ain't gonna happen." He said it mostly to himself, as under his breath as he could manage.

He pushed into the bathroom and turned to shut the door.

He flinched, jerking violently backwards when he realized Natasha had followed him, was in the bathroom too, standing close enough that they were sharing air. But what startled him the most was the blood, it was covering her, staining her shirt and pulsing from her neck.

He retreated as far as the small bathroom would allow, slamming his elbow on the wall and tangling his legs up in the toilet. For a long horrifying moment, he could only stare at her. He blinked – and the blood was gone.

Jesus, he was losing his goddamned mind.

"Clint?" She backed all the way up to the door and held up her hands much in the way he would expect you did a startled, wounded animal. He supposed it was fitting. "What's going on?" she asked.

"Nothing," he insisted immediately. "I'm fine." He tried to untangle his legs from the toilet so he could stand straight again.

"That's bullshit." There was no teasing smile this time. She was serious, her gaze worried and angry all at once. "Since when are you afraid of _me_?"

His eyes darted up to meet hers and he shuffled a small step closer, instinctively reaching out only to immediately withdraw the hand as if he'd been burned.

"God, Natasha, that's not it."

That wasn't even _close_. It wasn't even Loki.

It was _him_.

* * *

"Then what _is_ it? Cuz last time I checked me touching you was usually something you enjoyed." Natasha shot back, eyeing him with concern.

He stared at her, _something_ in his gaze that she couldn't read. That in and of itself was troubling. She'd always been able to read Clint pretty well, and ever since Vietnam he'd practically been an open book. She'd had years now to learn every nuance of how he expressed himself, from the various ways he quirked his lips to smirk to the many things he could say with only his eyes.

But she couldn't read him now, not specifically. What she _could_ read, though, was loud and clear.

Fear.

But if it wasn't fear of _her_ …

She thought then of Loki, of what he'd said to her during her interrogation.

" _I won't touch Barton, not until I've made him kill you. Slowly, intimately, in every way he knows you fear."_

She felt her shoulders sag as she put it together. Apparently, though he was starting to forget pieces of the last two days, _this_ he remembered.

It _wasn't_ her. It probably wasn't even Loki.

It was _himself_. _He_ was the one he was afraid of.

"Clint…" she started softly, moving slowly closer. She took cautious, measured steps, not for her sake, but for his. Every inch she drew closer, the tension in his posture grew. It didn't take long to be standing nose to nose with him, but she was careful not to touch him.

He was holding himself absolutely still, his body thrumming with so much tension that she could almost hear it. His eyes – those stormy, blue-gray eyes – were locked on hers, though, as he waited to see what she would do.

"You didn't hurt me," she stated softly, but firmly.

A muscle in the side of his jaw twitched with tension and she slowly reached to rest her palm over it. His skin was warm – almost hot – an effect of coming down of Loki's spell, no doubt.

He flinched at the touch, but seemed to call upon pure force of will to stop himself from pulling away. Even if he had, he had nowhere to go.

"You would _never_ hurt me," she continued in the same quiet but unyielding tone.

She felt his jaw clench harder beneath her hand, but he still didn't respond. But he also didn't break his gaze from hers, so she went on.

"I trust you." To her, those were the most powerful words in any language. More powerful than proclamations of a 'love' she didn't believe in anymore. More powerful than any promise.

To trust someone, so completely and fully, it was once in a life time rare.

Something in his eyes broke and when he spoke, his voice was nothing but a ragged whisper.

" _I_ don't trust me."

Natasha felt her own expression fracture and she reached up with her other hand so that she was framing his jaw.

"Then let me trust enough for both of us," she softly commanded before pushing up onto her toes and gently pressing her lips to his.

He stood rigid beneath her touch, but she didn't relent.

She pulled back just enough to give herself room to speak, her words ghosting over his lips and her eyes boring into his.

"I trust you."

Then she kissed him again.

So slowly it seemed to happen one muscle at a time, he started to melt. It took time – how much, she wasn't sure, but eventually he relaxed under her touch. He settled one hand on her hip, just above her thigh holster, and the other he threaded into the hair at the base of her skull.

When she pulled back this time, she rested her forehead against his, giving him time to collect himself. She watched him stand there and breathe – eyes closed, forehead braced against hers. She wasn't sure how long they stood there, his hands unmoving and hers having shifted to the back curve of his jaw, her fingers threaded into the short hair behind his ears. Then, out of nowhere and with eyes still closed, he spoke.

"He made me want to kill you."

Natasha waited, very purposefully kept every muscle relaxed, and continued to watch him. She'd already known that, both from Loki and from the vicious hunger in his eyes when they'd battled on the catwalks.

After a moment, he opened his eyes and pulled his head back.

"Not just kill you. He made me want to _destroy_ you. He made me _need_ it."

He started to pull away, so she tightened her hands, keeping him from escaping.

"I would have," he stated bluntly.

"No," Natasha denied firmly, "you wouldn't."

"You don't know that, Natasha. You don't know what he made me want to _do_ …and I _wanted_ it. I _wanted_ to hurt you, to –"

She cut him off before he could put words to whatever horrors were in his mind.

"But you didn't."

Clint gave her a look like she was being stupid.

"Because you _stopped_ me, you knocked me out."

" _No_ ," Natasha disagreed fiercely. " _You_ stopped you."

Clint shook his head, reaching to grab her wrists and pull her hands away from his face. He started to retreat, backing as far away as he could, which wasn't far. His back hit the metal wall and his legs were wedged awkwardly between the toilet and the sink.

"You had a knife to my neck, Clint. You _had_ me. I _know_ you could have finished me then, you could have put that blade into my neck and done whatever the hell you wanted. But you _didn't_."

Clint frowned and shook his head again.

"That's not…"

"It _is_ ," Natasha interrupted. " _You_ hesitated. _You_. No matter _what_ else was going through your head, _that's_ what matters. _You_ stopped you and _you_ saved me."

Clint was shaking his head again.

"I'm sorry." He sounded _broken_.

Natasha felt her own heart break at the tone.

"Why?" she asked in helpless confusion.

"What I was thinking…what I wanted to do…" he shook his head again. "I'm _so_ sorry."

"Clint," she invaded his space again, and with the wall at his back there was nowhere for him to flee. She slid her hands over his shoulders and wrapped them around his neck, pulling him to her in firm, tight hug. "You don't have to apologize for something that _didn't_ happen. I'm _okay_. You didn't hurt me. I don't blame _you_ any more than you blamed _me_ for what happened in Germany."

That did it. His arms, which had been hanging limply at his sides, suddenly locked around her waist, pulling her closer. He turned his face into her neck and just inhaled sharply, arms tightening around her.

"You didn't hurt me," she repeated softly, sliding one hand up into his hair and fisting the other around the shoulder hem of his vest. And as they stood there – neither saying a word, just doing their best to hold themselves together – she realized that keeping the news about Phil from Clint went so far past stopping him from trying to kill Loki, past making the Avengers complete.

He wouldn't be able to handle the truth right now.

If he could barely handle that he'd _thought_ about hurting her, he wouldn't be able to handle knowing that his actions under Loki's control had led to the death of the other most important person in his life.

It still felt like a betrayal. It felt like she was using him, keeping him in the fight because they needed him. He deserved to know. He deserved to know what Loki had taken from him.

But he couldn't. Not yet.

Almost out of nowhere an overwhelming _need_ filled her. Whether it was for her sake, or his, or both, she _needed_ to connect with him, to comfort him and herself. To prove to _both_ of them that they were okay, that no matter what was happening around them, _they_ – Natasha and Clint –were constant and unyielding. That no matter what Loki had put in his head or what he told her, he hadn't broken them. He hadn't even managed to fracture the bond they shared.

"Kiss me."

Her words had him tensing again and she let him pull back far enough to look her in the eye.

"What?"

She made sure her intent was clear in her gaze and cocked a teasing eyebrow at him.

"You heard me."

Three days ago he would have smiled at the teasing, would have returned it with a jab of his own. But it wasn't three days ago, and now he didn't even crack a grin.

He shook his head instead, a rare fear rising in his gaze that made her heart hurt for him.

"I don't think…"

"Don't _think_ ," she cut him off. "Don't think about him. Don't think about what he put in your head. Don't think about anything. _Just kiss me."_

She could see the desire starting to build in his eyes, but still he hesitated.

"I don't want to hurt you…"

"You won't," she replied quietly. "I trust you," she assured a final time, but this time she added one more thing, "Trust _me_."

Trust her to keep him grounded, to keep him from coming apart or falling off whatever ledge he was teetering on.

The words had exactly the affect she'd hoped for. Trusting her had become as easy as breathing for him. She would know. The reverse was just as true.

Whatever doubts he had seemed to drain out of his gaze and then _he_ was the one advancing, locking his mouth onto hers and driving her backwards. He hooked his hands behind her thighs and lifted her up a moment before her back hit the door.

After that, she didn't have to do much thinking at all.

* * *

Clint stared down at the swirling water in the sink, watching it funnel into the drain. Natasha, after they'd tested out the versatility of the small bathroom, had left him alone, quietly telling him to take a minute to get his head on straight and that she'd be waiting for him in the room. After which, she was going to do her level best to get him released.

Clint wasn't sure how long he'd been staring at the water. He'd turned it on as soon as she left, but had yet to touch it.

He knew it would be cold and he'd had enough cold to last a lifetime.

He closed his eyes, breathing deeply through his nose.

_He's gone. You're free. Whatever's left, you can take it._

He could take it. He could always take it. He wouldn't break, not ever again. He'd managed to put himself back together after Barney had left him shattered. Somebody like _Loki_ wasn't going to succeed where the likes of Matthew Williams and Phillip fucking Jacobs had failed.

He could take it. He _would_ take it.

He blew out another deep breath and opened his eyes, looking up at the shatterproof mirror above the sink.

Icy, unnatural blue eyes stared back.

Clint flinched backwards with a startled blink. When he looked again, the icy gaze was gone, leaving behind nothing but his own blue-gray eyes.

This was only the beginning, he knew that. His own subconscious had always been his own worst enemy. But he could take it. He could handle it. He'd find a way. With Phil and Natasha in his corner, it might not even be as impossible as if felt right now.

A sudden longing to see Phil, to hear his voice, overwhelmed him. Phil had a way of knowing exactly what Clint needed to hear and saying it in the exact way he needed to hear it.

Right now, he needed Phil to tell him he'd be okay. That Loki, no matter _what_ he'd done to him or made him want to do, wouldn't win. He needed Phil to remind him that he was _strong_. That he was Clint fucking Barton. Phil said that like it was a piece of armor, like being 'Clint Barton' was a source of strength in and of itself. But then, Phil had always seen something in him that Clint could never see for himself.

God, he needed to see Phil.

He braced himself, stared down at the cold water, and put his hand in it. He almost pulled back, the coldness that swept through his fingers and hand too reminiscent of another coldness he'd been trapped in not long enough ago.

 _I can take it_.

He stuck his other hand in the water too and cupped them together, gathering water in his palms.

Now or never.

He ducked down and splashed the water on his face.

_The spear hit his chest without warning and with brutal, bruising force, barely a shade above breaking skin._

_The ice hit him like a sledge hammer. There was no slow cresting wave this time – just absolute cold and pain._

Clint gasped like a fish out of water, one hand going to his chest and the other wiping away as much water from his face as possible. His eyes darted up to the mirror, searching for blue. He found it, but only the familiar blue-gray that had been in his reflection his entire life. No ice in sight.

He lowered his head again, letting his chin hang to his chest and bracing his free hand on the edge of the sink – his other hand was pressing hard against his sternum.

A stray drop of water rolled down his nose and fell into the sink, mixing with the still running stream from the tap and disappearing down the drain. Clint forced himself to blink and pried his hand from his chest. He transferred it to the edge of the sink, joining his other in its white knuckled grip.

He drew in a slow, deep breath and let it out just as carefully.

Then he forced himself to loosen his hands on the sink. He reached for the thin, scratchy towel hanging nearby and pressed it to his face, ridding himself of the last of the water.

A new voice – one he didn't recognize – out in the main part of the cell drew his attention.

" _Time to go."_

He heard Natasha respond immediately. Apparently she _did_ know the owner of the voice.

" _Go where?"_

" _I'll tell you on the way. Can you fly one of those jets?"_

Looked like the other shoe had dropped. Time to choose, fight or flight.

He met his gaze in the mirror and lifted his chin, steeling himself.

Who was he kidding, flight had never been an option. He would _always_ fight. He'd fight until he had no fight left.

He reached for the bathroom door and stepped out.

"I can."

* * *

_End of Chapter 9_

_Poor Clint...as if he wasn't screwed up emotionally enough...ironic isn't it? They're both lying and both feeling guilty about it...Should Natasha be able to sniff out the lie? Maybe...but she's got A LOT on her mind. You could almost say the fact that each of them is lying is what's preventing them from realizing the OTHER is lying. And anybody else get the sense that Clint's got some PTSD like issues right now? Poor guy :(_

_Anyway, drop me a line if you please :) Until tomorrow, your preview:_

* * *

_"Okay," he muttered to himself, reaching for an arrow. "An army of aliens with big guns and sticks that shoot death rays, who happen to have flying jet skis. Should be fun…"_


	10. I'm Not Afraid, To Take a Stand

_Disclaimer: I do not own "The Avengers" or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works. I do not claim any of the directly quoted lines from "The Avengers" as my own, they belong to Marvel and the writers._ _The cover art came from a google search with the original source being pinterest where it was credited to Anthony Genuardi._

 _Author's Note: While I embrace_ **_constructive_ ** _criticism, remember this old saying if you choose to leave a review "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all"_

* * *

_Thank you to all who reviewed! I'm still travelling cross country and its all I can do to get updates posted from my phone. I appreciate every one of you and will reply to questions in Thursday's update!_

_A million thanks to my betas_ **Kylen** _and_ **JRBarton** _for everything they do for me :)_

_Onward!_

* * *

_Last time in The Untold Stories:_

_Looked like the other shoe had dropped. Time to choose, fight or flight._

_He met his gaze in the mirror and lifted his chin, steeling himself._

_Who was he kidding, flight had never been an option. He would always fight. He'd fight until he had no fight left._

_He reached for the bathroom door and stepped out._

_"I can."_

* * *

_Appear weak when you are strong, and strong when you are weak._  
**_Sun Tzu_ **

* * *

_April 13, 2012_  
_10:20 a.m.  
_ _SHIELD hangar deck_

* * *

Clint settled into the pilot's chair of the quinjet. It felt foreign for a moment, like he didn't quite belong there anymore. He shook off the feeling and reached for the headset hooked on the flight controls.

Getting released from max-sec actually hadn't been that hard when Captain America himself was the one springing you. Clint was still a little stunned by _that_ little development. Sure, he'd known Steve Rogers was alive and thawed, but he'd been sent to New Mexico pretty much as soon as the tesseract project started and hadn't met the man in person. He couldn't help but be a little star-struck at first.

Phil was probably shitting excited little kittens.

He started the pre-flight procedure, already knowing they'd be skipping the usual 'cleared for departure' bit. Stealing a jet…that one was new. Or at least it would have been a day ago...

" _Everybody gear up and get that jet through the pre-flight prep."_

_His team headed immediately towards the back door that would take them to the gear and then through to the one-jet hangar._

" _Wait." He stopped them with a sharp command. He looked at the SHIELD agent assigned to this weapons depot, eyeing his hand – specifically his thumb._

" _You're gonna need this."_

"Did you know that guy?" Roger's voice startled him out of the memory, making his hand slip off the control's he'd been adjusting. He felt Natasha's gaze land heavily on him from her place in the co-pilot's chair. Rogers was settled between their two chairs, a hand braced on the back of each. "He was glaring at you pretty hard."

Rogers was referring to the pilot the good Captain had "Son, just don't"-ed less than 60 seconds ago. Clint shifted a look at Natasha and flipped the switch to bring the jet to life. When Clint remained silent, Natasha answered for him.

"Clint broke his wrist once…and part of his hand."

He felt Roger's gaze land on him, he could practically feel the vague sense of judgement boring into him. He could almost hear the Captain wondering if Clint made a habit of lashing out against his own people.

"He had it coming," Natasha added firmly, her sharp green gaze pinned suddenly on Rogers, daring him to question Clint's loyalty, even silently.

To be fair, the pilot – Jed Wyle – _was_ an ass and he had pulled Clint's headphones out during a petty argument about who had the right to do a pre-flight check of a jet and who didn't. Did that warrant the breaking of bones? Maybe not. But Jed Wyle had never given him shit again, at least not to his face, and neither had any other pilot.

Rogers nodded curtly and looked ahead through the windshield.

"Let's go."

Clint checked to make sure the way was clear then he engaged the thrusters, lifting the jet off the tarmac. A nudge of the twin levers he held in his hands and they were rocketing forward, away from the carrier.

No sooner had they hit open air than they heard a call come over the comms.

" _We've got unauthorized departure from Bay Six!"_

Clint growled low in his throat. Jed Wyle – the little bastard.

"It's only a matter of time before the Council gets wind," Clint said as he glanced at Natasha, who was studying their GPS with undue intensity.

"Communications are down." Her reply was swift and confident, even if the nervous glance she shot him belied the claim.

"Won't be for long," he replied lowly.

"The Council? As in SHIELD's governing body? Why would it matter if they get wind of what's happening? Wouldn't they want us to do what we can to stop Loki?" Rogers asked with honest and sincere confusion.

Clint tossed the Captain a 'you kidding me?' glance over his shoulder.

"Have you _met_ the Council?" he asked with an edge of sarcasm.

Rogers frowned.

"Well, no…"

"A group of asshats, every damn one of them," Clint informed him bluntly as he returned his attention to piloting.

"There's bad blood between them and Clint, always has been," Natasha added quietly.

"Why?" Rogers' vaguely suspicious gaze was settled on him again. He really wasn't making the best first impression on Phil's childhood idol.

"Must be my charming disposition." Clint smirked sarcastically.

Rogers studied him a moment longer before mercifully letting it go. Clint didn't feel up to explaining that bad blood anyway. And even if he did, there wasn't time what with the dark nature of his previous profession, the direct fall out that had brought down on SHIELD in the form of a vengeful Matthew Williams, and his decision to directly defy a kill order on the deadliest assassin in the world.

Their journey remained unobstructed for exactly 45 more seconds. Then two jets suddenly rocketed ahead of them, banked sharply and headed back for them.

"Clint…" Natasha warned lowly.

"I see them…shit." Clint pulled back on the controls, bringing the jet to a stand-still hover. The two opposing jets did the same. For a long moment everybody just stared at each other.

A light on the console suddenly lit up bright red.

"Communication coming through," Natasha announced to no one in particular.

Clint hesitated. Sparring with the Council was _not_ on his list of things to do in the near future. He was still feeling too raw, too exposed, too close to some invisible edge. One wrong move and he'd be free-falling.

Clint was shocked when it was _Rogers_ that spoke first, his voice firm and strong.

"Put them through."

Natasha shot a nervous look at Clint, which he returned with twitch of his eyebrow. It wasn't his call. He just hoped Rogers didn't expect him to do any of the talking.

She keyed the speaker on the console, letting the call come through.

"This is Agent Romanoff."

" _You are to stand down. Return that jet to the Helicarrier and surrender Agent Barton back into custody."_

Before Clint could muster a proper response – though he was too exhausted and wrung out to come up with anything more creative than some version of 'Fuck you.' – Rogers spoke up.

"I'm sorry, sir, but that's not going to happen."

There was a moment of hesitation on the line then whatever Council member they were dealing with came back.

" _Captain Rogers, Agent Barton is to be remanded into custody until his involvement in recent treasonous activity can be investigated."_

Rogers didn't look at Clint as he replied, but the solidarity in his voice was unexpected.

"I don't see any traitors here, sir. Now if you'll excuse us, we've got a world that needs saving."

" _Captain Rogers, if you don't return Agent Barton to SHIELD custody, we'll have no choice but to take him by force."_

All three of their gazes settled on the two jets blocking their way.

Rogers motioned for Natasha to mute their end of the call.

"Can you out maneuver them?" he asked seriously, intense blue eyes boring into Clint's.

Clint nodded sharply.

"Without a doubt, but they're carrying SHIELD munitions, they unload a targeting missile and we're screwed."

Rogers drew in a sharp breath and let it out just as harshly.

Natasha suddenly spoke up, one hand on her headset.

"Another communication coming through."

Rogers nodded at her.

"Put it through too."

She did as he asked and they all exchanged a look when Fury's voice filled the jet.

" _Don't you three have a narcissistic god that needs dealing with?"_

Before any of them could respond, the Council member, still on the line, replied.

" _Director Fury, Agent Barton should never have been released from custody."_

" _I've been told he's recovered from his forced captivity and is fit for battle. He's got a job to do, I'm inclined to let him do it,"_ Fury shot back.

" _The Council_ _ **will**_ _see him returned to custody, by force if necessary. Until a thorough investigation into his actions can-"_

" _What are you gonna do?"_ Fury challenged, _"Shoot down the jet? In case it escaped your attention, Captain America is on board. You wanna kill the face of patriotism? Be my goddamned guest."_

The silence that followed had the jet's three occupants exchanging another glance. Clint flexed his hands on the controls, waiting.

" _That's what I thought. Barton, get your ass moving. It's already started."_

Fury's end of the communication went dead and with it, the Council member's. Either Fury terminated the call himself or the Council member decided to admit defeat. Either way, seconds later the two jets opposing them banked away, leaving his path clear.

Rogers' hand landed on his shoulder.

"Let's go."

Clint looked at the hand, then up at the owner, and resisted the urge to shake it off. Rogers seemed to sense his unease because he withdrew the touch.

Clint turned back to the windshield and eased the controls forward.

Even with the jet's inherent speed, getting to the city took a few minutes. Clint pushed the jet to its limits, but even so, only found so much distraction in piloting. Hell, he'd been flying these things for so many years he could practically do it without conscious thought.

Lack of distraction, and the silence of the jet, led to thinking…too much thinking.

He'd lied to her – to Natasha. Lied right to her face.

He'd said he didn't remember anything.

But he remembered _everything_.

Maybe if she hadn't been so distracted by worry, she'd have realized he'd contradicted himself a dozen times already. She'd realize that he remembered every pain-filled, agonizing detail of the past two and half days. He remembered Loki breaking down the walls of his mind and leaving destruction in his wake. He remembered Loki dragging him through the worst moments of his life, digging, searching for Clint's greatest and worst fears.

And he'd found them.

He even remembered his brief bout of freedom.

He still didn't know how he did it, what in his mind had been strong enough to retain a foothold amidst Loki's hostile takeover. But the freedom had been short-lived and the return to captivity had been far worse than his initial capture.

He remembered unfiltered pain as Loki's spear brought him ruthlessly back under the god's control. Loki hadn't bothered with finesse or care that second time, he'd just _taken_ control back with brute, violent force.

He remembered giving Loki his plan and then spilling every secret he knew about SHIELD and about the Avengers…and about Natasha.

His hands tightened on the controls.

Loki had read what Clint felt for her through whatever bond the spear created between their minds. He'd taken that information and twisted it into something dark and violent. He'd planted a vicious, cruel desire in Clint's mind, a plan that – thank whatever God was out there – had never come to fruition.

But it had been close, so damn close…he'd almost…

A hand wrapped suddenly around his wrist, shocking him back to the present.

"Clint."

 _Natasha_.

Her voice was firm, but worried, making him wonder if it wasn't the first time she'd said his name.

He swallowed thickly, looking down at his hands – bloodless around the controls – and at her hand on his wrist, warm and solid… _real_.

"I'm fine," he lied.

"Clint…" she was a breath away from calling him on it. Her hand tightened on his wrist. Rogers' gaze was heavy on his profile, but Clint couldn't bring himself to return it.

He was saved by the shocking site of downtown Manhattan, overrun with bodies swarming around like flies. Amidst them, they could see a hot-rod red figure, blasting blue energy left and right.

"There," Rogers pointed to Stark.

Clint nodded, already maneuvering the jet quickly to Stark's location.

Natasha, now that they were in range, keyed her communicator.

"JARVIS, you there?"

The disembodied British voice of Stark's AI replied immediately.

" _I'm here, Agent Romanoff."_

"Connect me to Stark."

" _Right away."_

Natasha waited a beat then called out to the billionaire.

"Stark, we're on your three, headed northeast."

Stark's reply was immediate and carried absolutely no indication of the weight of the situation. Clint could almost admire the man's ability to remain cool under pressure.

" _What, did you stop for drive thru?"_ The three of them exchanged a glance, hoping their delay hadn't cost them. _"Swing up Park, I'm gonna lay 'em out for you."_

Natasha looked at Clint, asking with a glance if he was ready.

He met her gaze and forced himself to smirk.

"Let's go kill some bad guys."

* * *

The first glimpse Clint got of Loki was from the jet. He was just _there_ , fighting with Thor on the balcony of Stark Tower. He felt hate rise in him so swiftly that for a moment it was all he could think about. But the wave crested and he was able to claw back his focus.

"Nat," he called without looking away from the brawling brothers.

Her voice was calm and confident when she replied.

"I see him," she assured even as she shifted the gun controls she'd been manning.

Clint banked the jet to give her an open line of fire, but it was too late, Loki had seen them. Even as Natasha's gunfire peppered the floor around him, Loki fired off a blast of energy from the spear.

Clint tried to turn them and dodge it, but there just wasn't enough time. The left engine went up in flames and alarms started blaring around him.

"Shit," he muttered, tightening his hands around the controls as they threatened to lurch out of his grip. These damn things had two engines for a reason – balance. With only one, the jet wanted to pull to the left, propelled that way by the engine on the right.

He tuned out Natasha as she braced herself in the co-pilot seat. He tuned out the Captain as he reached to find something to hold on to. He even tuned out the battle raging around them.

The only thing left was him and the jet.

He strained against the controls, feeling his already abused muscles burn under the stress of keeping the jet from careening into a spin. If he had a clear place to land, he could just flip off the second engine and try to glide down. But there were civilians everywhere. He had to get clear and find a place to put down.

That meant leaving the engine on so he had the thrust to keep them moving, but it also meant every inch was a battle between him and the jet.

He grit his teeth against the various pains making themselves known in his already beat-to-hell body and maneuvered them around the buildings.

"There," Natasha snapped, pointing at an open space ahead of them.

He'd already seen it. He straightened them out as best he could and let go of the controls with his right hand. His left arm immediately took on the full strain of keeping the jet level as he reached for the engine controls. He held his finger on the switch that would shut down the second engine even as they descended.

If he cut it off too early, they'd drop too far, too fast. If he shut it off too late, they'd skip along the pavement and slam into the building ahead of them.

He had to time it perfectly.

_No goddamned pressure._

He waited until they were 30 feet above ground and he cut the engine. They dropped, but their momentum continued to carry them forward. They hit the pavement hard, gouging into it hard enough to bubble up the road around them. Then, just as hoped, the jet came to a stop just shy of busting into the building's lobby.

He stripped off the headset and freed himself from the harness, following Natasha out of the cockpit. Rogers had hit the control to lower the ramp and the three of them jogged out together.

"We've got to get back up there," Rogers announced as they angled back towards Stark Tower.

But they all three stuttered to a stop at a loud, ominous groan emanating from somewhere above them.

Clint drew an arrow instinctively, crouching defensively as he looked for the source. He couldn't help but let his jaw go slack and the bowstring loosen when he saw it.

_What the…_

He watched with wide eyes as a giant, armored, flying, snake-like _thing_ came soaring out of the portal. He'd seen a lot of stuff in his short life, a lot of _nasty_ stuff that most people should never have to see. But _this_ , this took the goddamned cake.

He could only stare as the thing – he mentally dubbed it _The Shredder_ in honor of his childhood Ninja Turtles obsession – swam through the sky towards them. As it moved, aliens seemed to explode from the sides like popcorn, flying out to cling onto buildings.

"Stark," Rogers stated, voice heavy with shock, "you seeing this?"

Clint heard Stark reply over the comms almost immediately.

" _Seeing…still working on believing."_ A beat later he completely changed the subject, _"Where's Banner? Has he shown up yet?"_

Banner? Clint wondered in confusion, realizing now he hadn't heard anything about the scientist since he woke up.

Rogers echoed his confusion.

"Banner?"

" _Just keep me posted,"_ Stark replied before going silent on them.

Clint looked around, seeing more and more of the aliens – now mentally named _The Foot Clan_ – surrounding them. He nudged Natasha and together they moved to hunker behind a taxi. From that cover, he surveyed the area. There were civilians everywhere, running around like a posse of feral cats, but for the most part they were at least seeking shelter.

His eyes found a bus a little ways down the road. He could see from where he was that there were people trapped on it even as some Foot Clan members harassed them.

He looked over when Rogers suddenly jogged up and crouched down with them.

"We've got civilians trapped in…" he trailed off when a flying jet ski type thing suddenly zoomed over them. Clint's eyes caught a flash of green and gold and even as the jet ski moved past them, he zeroed in on him. "Loki." Even _he_ could hear the acidic loathing in his tone.

The three of them watched the god lay waste to cars and people left and right as he moved away from them.

Rogers sat back, looking frustrated.

"They're fish in a barrel down there."

He was right, but right now, they were surrounded. They needed to keep the Foot Clan focused on _them_ and not the civilians. He shifted to another cab, hunkering behind it and eyeing the aliens around them. He shot a glance at Nat and nodded slightly.

She looked to Rogers.

"We got this. It's good," she gave him a nod. "Go."

Rogers looked hesitant, his gaze shifting to Clint.

"You think you can hold them off?"

"Captain," Clint pressed the control on his bow and loaded an arrow head, "it would be my genuine pleasure." Then he drew the arrow and stood even as he nocked it. He found a target and let it fly. He didn't wait to see it land. He knew he wouldn't miss. He did _hear_ the satisfying sound of the arrow head unleashing its own attack even as he ducked back down.

When he looked back at Rogers and Nat, the Captain was gone, jumping from the bridge onto a bus.

Clint shifted back to Natasha.

"We gotta get those people off the bus."

She nodded curtly.

"Go. I'll cover you."

They moved as one, her rising to fire her guns and him sprinting towards the bus. He felt her moving with him, covering his back and then she took relative cover behind a car while he started unloading the trapped civilians. He spared a glance back at her as he put a young boy on the ground and saw the Foot Clan growing steadily closer. She'd be overwhelmed before long.

"Hold on," he instructed the people on the bus and jogged to the back door. He jammed his fingers into the narrow space between the two panels and pulled. At first it didn't budge, but then, under the force of his unrelenting strength, they started to part. Once the process started, it got easier and a moment later the doors were standing open.

He jogged back to Natasha even as the bus emptied and the people fled to safety. He drew an arrow as he came to stand with her and let it fly.

"This is like Budapest all over again," she commented idly.

If Clint could have spared the time to give her an incredulous look, he would have. He didn't remember _much_ about Budapest, but he was fairly certain there hadn't been any aliens. He guessed maybe she was talking about her standoff in the prison with a building full of corrupt cops. He didn't remember _that_ for himself either.

Either way, he didn't quite get the comparison.

"You and I remember Budapest very differently," he replied even as he caught sight of one of the jet skis flying over them. He shifted his aim up and fired at the driver, not waiting to watch it careen to the ground and explode.

"They're gonna overrun us," Natasha stated calmly as one of her guns clicked empty.

"Yeah," he agreed as he stabbed an arrow into the face of one of the aliens climbing over the car they were shielded behind and then shot that same arrow at one a few feet behind it. "Stay close."

She didn't bother replying, but he knew she would. She'd stay close if for no other reason than to watch his back. The same reason _he_ wouldn't be letting too many of these things get between them either. He had to be ready to watch _hers_.

In no time at all, they were surrounded, forced to battle hand to hand.

He swept his bow low, taking out the nearest alien's feet and then drew an arrow, spun it in his hand and slammed it down into the thing's throat. He ripped the arrow free and took off towards another one that was heading towards where Natasha was already grappling with one of her own.

He took that one out and turned only to get a chest full of alien as it tackled him to the ground like he was a quarterback getting sacked. The air rushed out of his lungs, but he lashed out anyway, kicking it back far enough for him to snag an arrow from a body next to him. He drove it into the thing's chest and pushed up from the ground.

He caught a glimpse of Natasha battling with a staff-like thing, one of the alien weapons. She was very effectively using it against them. Satisfied she was safe for now, he looked for his next target. An alien dove at him from the top of a car and he shifted, sliding one of his knives free of the sheath on his back and sweeping out with it. The blade caught the alien across the throat and even as it fell, Clint re-sheathed the knife safely at his back.

Gunfire erupted around him and he ran, sliding like a baseball player heading for home. Then he found his feet and turned, firing off an arrow at the alien that had been doing the shooting.

 _Still_ more of them came, pouring over the cars and dropping from the buildings like roaches.

He and Nat kept fighting. When he had to, he used one of his knives, trying to spare his arrows, but always slid it back to the safety of its sheath so he didn't lose either of them. Beyond their sentimental value to him, he had a feeling he'd need them before this was all over.

Finally, out of nowhere, Rogers returned. With his help they took down a few more. Then lightning was erupting around the nearest group and they all dropped. A second later Thor landed hard next to a cab, looking winded.

All was quiet around them and Clint used the respite to scavenge for arrows. He sensed Nat following, hovering a few feet away as he moved, eyes on the area around him just in case. He vaguely listened to Thor and Rogers discussing the situation. He tuned in a little closer when Stark's voice rang over the comms.

" _Thor's right. You gotta deal with_ _ **these**_ _guys."_

Natasha looked to Rogers for direction.

"How do we do this?" she asked.

Rogers reply was immediate.

"As a team."

It was cliché, painfully so, but he wasn't wrong. Clint snatched an arrow from a body and started inspecting the head to make sure it was still usable.

"I have unfinished business with Loki," Thor stated firmly, a note of anger and betrayal in his voice that Clint recognized all too well. But Thor wasn't the only one with an axe to grind.

"Yeah," he shot back, "get in line."

Last Clint had checked, _he'd_ been the one the son of a bitch had turned into a goddamned puppet.

"Save it," Rogers scolded sharply. "Loki's gonna keep this fight focused on us and that's what we need," he explained as he approached Clint. "Without him these things could run wild."

Again, Rogers wasn't wrong. No matter how much Clint was itching for revenge, now wasn't the time. There were civilians to protect, a _lot_ of them.

"We got Stark up top." Rogers pointed upward. "He's gonna need us to…" he trailed off as the sound of a motorcycle stole all of their attention.

Clint arched an eyebrow. He'd never officially met Bruce Banner, but he had read his file after the Hulk first emerged. _And_ he'd been tasked with watching his back and clearing away some overly interested parties not all that long ago. So knowing what he knew about the man's greener half, Clint wasn't sure if his arrival was a good thing or bad.

All of them moved together to meet him.

"So…this all seems horrible."

Clint almost laughed. The dry sarcasm in the doctor's tone was a nice reprieve from the dire situation. He glanced curiously at Nat when she was the one who replied.

"I've seen worse."

Clint frowned. He didn't know what the hell that meant, but judging by the contrite look Banner was now sporting, it had something to do with him.

"Sorry," the doctor apologized sincerely.

"No," Natasha smirked a little, "we could use a little worse."

Clint's brow furrowed.

" _Banner, he probably won't even come into contact with you. He's a science guy. He'll be more interested in that…So you use it to fuck him up and turn the Hulk loose."_

His gut tightened at the memory. She must have gotten caught up in the Hulk's rampage. He found himself scanning her for injuries he hadn't noticed before even as Rogers let Stark know about their new arrival.

He couldn't see anything imminently wrong with her. She seemed steady.

Sensing his gaze, she looked at him, eyebrow cocked in question. He shook his head slightly and looked to where Stark came flying around a building. Natasha followed his gaze and her eyebrows rose as the "Shredder"came into view.

"I-I don't see how that's a party," she deadpanned, referencing the comment Clint had only vaguely heard Stark make just moments ago. Humor in crappy situations was usually his gig, but he didn't mind so much passing the buck today. His usual snarky wit seemed to have abandoned him right around the time Loki showed up.

Banner was the only one that moved at first, turning and heading straight for the Shredder, but Rogers followed him almost immediately. Clint stayed put, no way even his most destructive arrow could even make a dent in that thing.

"Doctor Banner," Rogers's voice got Banner to pause and look back, "now might be a really good time for you to get angry."

"That's my secret, Captain," Banner replied with a smirk. "I'm always angry."

Then Clint could only stare as Banner shifted into the Hulk right there before their eyes. He didn't have time to even _begin_ to analyze what that kind of control meant before Banner was just straight up punching the Shredder in the face.

Clint shifted in place as the creature buckled and started to flip over itself.

He barely heard Stark say something over the comms as they all scattered, searching for cover. He started to look for Nat, but then saw Rogers grabbing her, pulling them both behind his shield. She was sure as hell safer than _he_ was at the moment, so he rushed to the nearest car, hunkering next to it just as the explosion from Stark's final attack on the Shredder pelted them all with flames and chunks of alien flesh and metal.

In the next moment, it felt like every goddamned member of the Foot Clan started shrieking at them in anger. Clint rose with others, circling the proverbial wagons and covering each other's backs. As the aliens continued to shriek like goddamned banshees, Clint started to wonder if the Shredder had been a beloved class pet or something.

"Guys…" Natasha's call had him looking back at her, then up to where she was staring.

 _You've got to be kidding me_ …two more of the snake things were making their way through the portal. Because they couldn't just have _one_ victory.

Clint could only stare with wide eyes, not even finding the will to name them this time.

"Call it, Captain," Stark offered, bringing Clint out of his stupor.

Rogers immediately stepped up to the plate and started issuing orders.

"All right, listen up. Until we can close that portal our priority is containment. Barton," Clint gave the Captain his full attention, "I want you on _that_ roof, eyes on everything. Call out patterns and strays." Rogers was already moving on to Stark even as Clint nodded.

Rogers was putting Clint right in his element. High in the sky, seeing the big picture, and playing sniper. Maybe there was something to this whole "team" thing. He looked to Stark when Rogers finished his marching orders.

"You wanna give me a lift?" he asked. Hitching a ride sure as hell beat having to hoof it up that many flights of stairs. To his relief, Stark nodded immediately.

"Right. Better clench up, Legolas."

Clint wasn't sure if he was more annoyed by Stark's words or geekily pleased to be compared to the archer from one of his favorite book series. He didn't get a chance to decide before Stark was taking a fistful of his uniform and they were blasting off into the sky.

Clint's stomach was somewhere in his knees and just as his body caught up to the sudden ascent, Stark was slowing, depositing him on his new perch and taking off with a jaunty wave. Clint had to take a moment to swallow to make sure the power bar Nat had forced him to consume stayed were it belonged and then he readied himself.

For a moment, he did nothing but _look_. He swept his gaze over the entire scene, taking everything in. He tracked the team, noted their positions best he could – it was easier with Nat and Rogers, since they seemed to be staying put – and took a beat to study the enemy.

A beat was all he got. Having spotted him, several of the aliens were headed his way. He supposed he made a good target. He was alone and he didn't look nearly as imposing as the other three solo team members. The Hulk was smashing his way through buildings at the moment. Then there was Thor, who was calling down lightning. And Stark was flying around with a suit of armor and energy blasters.

"Okay," he muttered to himself, reaching for an arrow. "An army of aliens with big guns and sticks that shoot death rays, who happen to have flying jet skis. Should be fun…"

He found a target, and he fired.

In the end, it was kind of like target practice. _Extreme_ , high intensity, target practice with multiple moving targets that shot back and a team full of friendlies he had to keep an eye on.

Speaking of…

"Stark, you got a lot of strays sniffing your tail."

" _Just trying to keep them off the streets,"_ Stark replied, sounding slightly distracted.

Clint kept firing even as he offered the only advice he had for the moment. Stark couldn't just lead them on a wild chase through the city all day.

"Well, they can't bank worth a damn." He caught a reflection of one of the jet skis in the window of the building opposite him. While still tracking Stark with his eyes, he nocked an arrow and aimed for where the jet ski should be now. He fired. "Find a tight corner," he suggested even as he saw the reflection of the jet ski he'd been aiming for fall from the sky.

" _I will roger that,"_ Stark accepted easily.

Clint left Stark to it and kept taking out what targets he could. He tried to stick to taking down the jet skis. He didn't have unlimited arrows and shooting one alien at a time would be a lot like throwing one drop of water at a time on a fire when you only had one cup of water. He had to take them out in bigger numbers.

He tracked one, lined up the shot and looked for another even as he fired. There was no time to make sure he hit his mark every time. He had to trust his instincts.

He caught a glimpse of Stark tightly banking around a corner, sending a group of pursuers crashing into a building. He smirked.

" _Nice call,"_ Stark offered and cleared his throat. _"What else you got?"_

Clint glanced around, as he released another arrow. Hulk was out of sight at the moment. Nat and Steve had each other's backs. He found Thor next, fighting alone.

"Well, Thor's taking on a squadron down on 6th."

" _And he didn't invite me?"_ Stark's tone was laced with dry humor and Clint found himself grinning.

A moment later a ball of green came busting out of a building a few streets down, leaping onto one of the new snakes. A moment later the thing was on the ground.

Having a Hulk was turning out to be handy as hell.

A sudden shriek had Clint stepping back even as one of the aliens leapt up onto his ledge. He swept out with his bow, knocking it back. He ducked under its counter attack with its own staff, and pulled his knife. He struck out, neatly splitting open its neck and then shoved it back off the building.

As he watched it fall, he saw another climbing up below him. He sheathed his knife and pulled an arrow, aiming straight down at the damn thing's face. By the time he took it out it was only a couple of feet away. A sizzle in the air had him ducking just in time to avoid getting nailed with a shot of blue energy. He tracked the shooter, saw him riding a jet ski. So he sighted the driver even as they drew farther away. He fired, again, not waiting to see his arrow hit. He knew it would.

He had bigger problems. The increasing number of these bastards swarming his rooftop for instance.

He took down three more of them in close combat before he had a chance to breathe and assess the team. He checked for Nat first, but she was gone. Who the hell knew where. She could take care of herself though and if she needed him, she'd let him know.

Rogers was still fighting on his own and every now and then he got a glimpse of Stark.

Thor and Hulk were MIA, but judging by the new hole he could see in Grand Central, they might have had something to do with that.

Movement a few blocks away caught his eye. A bank, civilians inside…looked like some Foot Clan members holding them hostage. If nobody handled that soon, they'd have a group of _dead_ civilians.

"Captain, the bank on 42nd past Madison. They cornered a lot of civilians in there."

" _I'm on it."_

Clint didn't bother watching the show. He had another alien to deal with. He stepped back as it swiped at his foot before it even cleared the ledge. It sprung up, leaping at him and he just turned and stepped aside, watching it fly by. At least they weren't that smart, more animalistic than anything. It turned back at him with a growl and Clint met it with a swift arrow to the face.

He was leaning to retrieve the arrow when he heard her.

" _Hawkeye!"_

Natasha.

He straightened, arrow forgotten, and looked for her. _There._ What the…how did she… _when_ did she get on one of the jet skis?

"Nat…what are you doing?"

" _Uh…"_ she hedged. _"Little help?"_

He saw him then. Pursuing her doggedly. _Loki._ He shifted the arrow heads and drew an arrow. With a slow breath he nocked it and pulled the string to his cheek.

"I got him," he assured her with a slight smirk. Then he let the smirk drop away, focusing everything he had on this one shot. It wouldn't matter if it hit him, but it had to get _to_ him.

He fired.

This one, he watched. He couldn't help it. He watched it right into Loki's hand as the god easily caught it. He felt himself smirk again when it exploded a moment later, throwing Loki into Stark Tower.

He sought out Natasha next, watching her flip athletically to the tower roof. Good.

As he turned away, forced to deal with another alien cresting the ledge of his rooftop, he thought he caught sight of Hulk jumping into Stark Tower after Loki.

Clint kicked the newest alien in the face, knocking it back and pulled an arrow, stabbing the next one in the eye before shooting the same arrow at one a foot below it. He spun, slamming his bow into another's chest, sending it falling. He pulled an arrow and shot another. He distantly heard another one of the snake things die _loudly_ , but couldn't spare the time to see who had managed to take it down.

He stumbled back when an alien leapt up onto the ledge in front of him. It snatched at his bow and Clint struck out with a left cross, catching it hard in the jaw and sending it stumbling back into open air.

The back of his neck tingled and he spun, drawing an arrow and firing on nothing but instinct. An alien no less than three feet away dropped. Another was already climbing up next to him. He reached back for an arrow, but met nothing but empty air.

 _Shit_. He was usually pretty good about counting arrows, but he'd used and reused so many that he'd lost track long ago.

He struck out with his bow, then slammed his boot into its chest and sending it flipping back over the ledge.

Every instinct he had suddenly flared in warning and he turned, looking for the source. What looked like a goddamned _fleet_ of the jet skis was headed right for him. Acting purely on instinct now, he looked around. Saw an arrow sticking out of one of the dead aliens on the roof and snatched it. He slid it into his quiver and hit the controls on his bow.

The SHIELD techs had been working out some kinks with his grappling arrowhead. He sure as hell hoped they'd ironed out the bugs because a repeat of what happened last time would end with him a pancake on the concrete.

He ran for the edge of the roof.

_This was a bad idea._

He jumped, twisting even as he drew the arrow and nocked it. He fired as the rooftop exploded around him. He wasn't 100 percent certain the grappling hook had adhered to anything until he came to a sudden, jarring stop. He was gripping his bow, _literally_ for dear life, and could only brace himself as his momentum sent him careening towards a large glass window.

This was gonna hurt.

He hit feet first, praying that his boots would break the glass and he wouldn't end up dangling in midair – or worse, that the impact would make him lose his grip. His boots broke it all right. He felt something in his left ankle torque painfully, but the glass gave way. He pressed the release on his bow, disengaging from the wire and letting his momentum carry him farther into the building.

He hit the floor _hard_ , head slamming into the ground and body rolling through shards of broken glass. He came to a jarring halt on his back with his quiver digging into his spine.

"Ow…"

He tried to move, but for a breath he just _couldn't_.

He hated goddamned windows. He didn't know _what_ Natasha found so appealing about them. He groaned and forced himself to roll off his back, to release the pressure his quiver was putting on all the bruises he already had.

He pushed up to his hands and knees, then forced one foot under him, then the other. His left ankle almost gave out, but he willed it to hold firm. He had to get back out there. He couldn't just sit in here and lick his wounds while the world was ending.

He brushed his hand over his bare arms, feeling glass cut his skin as he swept it away. He felt at least a couple shards up under the back of his uniform, but when he reached for them he only ended up digging them deeper. He'd have to leave them for now.

It was then that he realized none of the teams' voices were chattering in his ear. He raised his hand, feeling for his comm. It was gone.

"Perfect."

He headed for the stairwell, hoping like hell nobody needed him between now and the 42 flights he had to get down. When he burst out into the 42nd floor landing he paused. Usually he had a carabiner on his belt for just this kind of situation and a rope in his cargo pocket. But _usually_ he wasn't wearing this super hero getup Phil had designed for him.

He'd have to monkey it.

He climbed over the railing and took a breath. Then he dropped. He caught another railing 2 stories down, took another breath and dropped again.

By the time he got to the bottom, his arms were burning from the strain of catching his entire body weight over and over and his left knee was throbbing from slamming into the metal railing about halfway down.

But he was on the ground floor, and he was in one piece, so he'd take it.

He burst out the exit door to a swarm of aliens waiting for him. He stowed his bow at his back and drew both his knives, knowing every hit he landed needed to be deadly. Then he shifted his stance and waited.

When they converged, he was ready.

He fought like a wild cat, each strike of his blades tearing through alien flesh. They dropped around him almost as fast as they could attack. He braced his foot on a pile of them and jumped, clearing the head of one and slamming both his knives into another's throat. He ripped the blades free and kicked out, knocking another one back. He ducked a swing from a staff and narrowly dodged a blast from a gun that ended up taking out two of the other aliens instead. He was forced to dive and roll over his shoulder to avoid another blast, but as he came to his feet he sliced out at the ankles of two aliens on either side of him. They both fell and he buried the knives to the hilt in their faces before pulling the blades free once again.

He scaled another like a monkey, sitting on its shoulders long enough to slit its throat and then pushing off as it fell to leap at another one.

A staff caught him in the ankle, a glancing blow, but it was his left and the injured joint collapsed beneath him. He fell to one knee, and had to tuck down and roll to avoid a blast from a gun. He came up to his feet unsteadily and assessed his situation.

He was surrounded. They'd closed ranks on him.

He was exhausted. He'd been injured coming _into_ this. But if they took him down, he sure as hell was taking as many of them down _with_ him as he could.

The nearest one raised his weapon, and the rest took the cue. He prepared himself to attack.

Then, with no warning…they just dropped.

He looked around, watching in confusion as the rest of the aliens on the street dropped too, like they'd been unplugged from a power source.

He turned, looking to the portal. No more aliens were coming through.

He dropped his gaze, following the portal funnel, but it disappeared behind another building. He'd been able to see Stark Tower easily enough from the roof, but at street level, he was blocks away with nothing but skyscrapers between him and it.

Instinct had him moving, first at a jog, then a run, soon he was sprinting. He scavenged arrows as he came across them, not even bothering to see if they were flight worthy before stowing them in his quiver.

Never before had he wished for a comm so damn much. He'd even take a damn molar implant to just _know_ what was going on. Something was happening, something big. Natasha had been on the roof of Stark Tower last he'd seen her. Chances were she was in the middle of it.

He doubted Loki had instigated the fall of his own army, but he didn't think the god would be thrilled about this development. Loki could be moving on her. If he still had the staff, she'd be vulnerable. He had to get to her.

He put every parkour skill he had to use as he moved through the streets. He vaulted over alien bodies in the streets. He slid across abandoned cars and climbed and jumped over wreckage. The pain in his left leg was ignored, pushed aside to be dealt with later.

He had to get to her.

Abruptly the energy in the air shifted and he stumbled to a stop, reaching for one of his knives and readying himself to fight again if the aliens suddenly resurrected.

But the streets stayed still. He looked up then, to the portal.

It was shrinking.

They'd found a way to close it. Thank God.

Then, at the last second a hot-rod red figure fell through, careening towards the ground.

"Holy shit…" he muttered under his breath.

Stark had been out there, wherever _there_ was. Why the hell had Stark gone…

It hit him then. He'd been working for SHIELD for almost nine years. He knew how it operated. More specifically, he knew how the fucking _Council_ operated. In all their infinite wisdom, they'd probably decided to contain the situation in their own way, collateral damage be damned.

Stark had probably saved all their lives.

And now he was apparently going to fall to his death because he most definitely was _not_ slowing down.

Clint lost sight of him behind a building and another wave of urgency swept through him, pushing him to move. So again, he started running. He couldn't help Stark. He hoped to hell the man survived, but Clint, in all honesty, couldn't focus on anything other than Natasha.

He had to get to her. He had to see her with his own eyes. Every sprinted step drew him closer to where he thought she was. But every step built up the fear that he was already too late. That Loki had gotten to her first.

He pushed himself harder, made himself run faster. He wasn't doing his body any favors, he knew that. His injured joints would make him pay for the frantic pace later. But he couldn't slow, he could only go faster.

Various other aches and pains were making themselves known too, which just made every step more painful than the last.

Like the glass. Goddamned tiny shards of hell. He could feel a few pieces still embedded in his arms – his cursory sweep with his hand only yielding limited results – and the few that had managed to trap themselves under his uniform, those were now burrowing deeper every time he moved.

He hated goddamned windows.

But he didn't stop.

Finally, he rounded a building and saw the base of Stark Tower. Natasha was emerging even as he approached. There was blood on her face and she looked worn and exhausted, but still she carried herself with a strong and proud set to her shoulders.

The relief that swept through him almost took him to his knees. She was okay. She was mobile. It was all he could hope for on a day like today.

Then he saw it, held loosely in her hand. The sight of the damn scepter had him freezing almost mid-step.

He could almost feel the ice spreading through him, could almost hear the haunting whisper of Loki's voice in his mind.

Natasha caught sight of him and headed his way, only to pause when she realized he wasn't moving towards her. Her brow furrowed and her eyes shifted from him to the spear. Understanding came quickly and she continued forward, her steps slow and cautious.

"Clint…"

She stopped right in front of him, the spear held in her right hand.

"It's just a weapon, like any other weapon. You've been shot a million times and you've never flinched away from a gun. This is no different."

A gun had never been used to take over his mind and force him to destroy everything that was important in his life. But the spear also hadn't burrowed a hole through his body on multiple occasions.

Clint tilted his head a little. She had a point, he supposed.

He forced himself to look at the spear and then forced himself to see it as just that – a weapon. He and weapons? They were old buddies. Not that he'd ever be able to bring himself to wield the spear…or even touch it. But at least he wasn't a quivering pile on the ground at the sight of it…so…he'd count it as a win.

He looked back at Natasha and nodded. Relief settled in her features and her lips quirked in a warm grin. He found his own lips quirking in response.

Then, without giving himself time to think about it, without giving his mind time to recall violent images filled with blood, he reached out. He caught one of her shoulders and pulled her to him, wrapping her in as tight a hug as he could manage.

The images came, just as vile and sickening as they had been since the moment Loki planted them in his mind. But he ignored them. It was worth the rolling in his stomach to feel her body against his. To know, without a doubt, that she was solid and real. She was okay.

He felt her free arm wrap up around his back as she clung to him just as fiercely.

"This was one for the record books, huh?" she spoke into his chest, where she'd tucked her head under his chin. Clint knew what she was doing, she was trying to lighten the moment. She was trying to do what _he_ had always done when things got too intense, when the hits had landed too hard.

But all her words did was make his gut clench as the memory of the last several days washed over him.

"Yeah," he managed. "Something like that."

She must have heard something in his voice, because she pulled back, eyes dark with concern as she tilted her head to look up at him.

But before she could question him, Rogers, Thor, Stark, and Hulk came around a building, heading for entrance to the tower. Clint took the reprieve for what it was and nudged her back the way she'd come. After a moment of hesitation, she allowed it.

Together they met up with the rest of the team at the lobby door.

"You both okay?" Rogers asked in concern, even though _he_ , himself, looked more than a little worse for wear.

Natasha glanced at Clint, deduced fairly quickly that he wasn't going to reply for himself, and then answered for both of them.

"We're good."

Rogers nodded, but his gaze lingered on Clint longer than the archer was comfortable with. He knew he probably looked as bad as he felt, but he'd be damned if he came this far and showed any weakness now. Not when the finish line was practically within his grasp. Rogers' perceptive eyes seemed to come to some conclusion that Clint was at least not in danger of immediate collapse, and finally cut away to focus on Stark.

"And you? Still okay?"

"Still alive," Stark replied with a weary sigh. "That's about all I'm qualified to assess at the moment."

"I'll take it." Rogers looked to Thor and Hulk next. "Why don't you meet us up there, big guy."

Hulk grunted and started climbing up the face of the building.

Steve nodded, giving them all meaningful look.

"Let's finish this."

Clint could only assume he meant Loki. The god was the only loose end left in this nightmare.

They trudged into the building together.

Stark led them all to a wall of elevators and pressed the 'up' arrow. One of the doors opened immediately and they piled in.

The ride up was awkward and cramped – Stark's armor coupled with Thor and Rogers' bulky builds took up most of the space – but Clint had claimed the back corner upon entry and the only one he actually had to come into contact with was Natasha. On a good day, that would have been cause to see just how much trouble he could get into with his hands before somebody noticed or Natasha swatted him away.

But today – hell, the last _two and half_ days – weren't even on the scale of good vs. bad. They'd gone so utterly south that they were in their own personal ring of hell.

He closed his eyes briefly, letting everything about her presence wash over him. He tilted his head forward until his forehead was resting against the crown of her head and his face was buried in her hair. Her hand nearest the wall slid back to brush against his, he turned his own hand obligingly, letting her weave her fingers with his.

It should have been a comfort. Not so very long ago, it would have been.

As everything else faded away and the elevator rose, her presence washed over him. The way she smelled, the heat of her body where she was pressed against his chest, the feeling of her hand woven with is – all of it hit him at once.

And suddenly he wasn't in the elevator any more. He was locked in a brutal battle, a knife in his hand and the smell of her blood in the air.

He drew in a sharp breath, eyes snapping open and head lifting. He felt his hand reflexively tighten around hers and then felt her answering squeeze.

Clint looked around sharply, taking in the sight of the shiny metal walls around him and the other bodies occupying the space.

Stark was humming along with the elevator music. Thor was shifting his armor so it settled more comfortably on his chest. Rogers was in the other corner, head tilted back tiredly and eyes closed.

None of them noticed his momentary lapse, none of them even glanced his way.

But Natasha had noticed. Her fingers laced with his kept up a constant pressure, assuring him without words that she was _there_. That she was _real_.

Phil had always mused that he thought Clint was a tactile creature, yearning for physical touch more than he'd ever admit, maybe more than he even realized. Clint had never been more certain that his handler had nailed that particular personality trait than he was in this moment.

Just her hand in his was enough to ground him. The feel of her back pressing against his chest, banished the dark thoughts. The heat of her body swept away the memory of being so goddamned cold.

He was so damn lucky that she had laid a claim on him – that he was _hers_. Lucky that when he needed her most, she was _always_ there.

Not for the first time since Vietnam, he wondered what the hell he'd done without her.

She tugged on his hand, silently urging him to relax again, to use these quiet moments to breath, not dwell.

It was surprisingly easy to drop his head again, pressing his forehead into the back of her head.

Then he breathed.

He felt her body shift against his as she stepped slightly back, pressing her back more solidly into his chest.

He kept breathing.

When the violent bloody flashes danced across his mind again, he tightened his hand on hers. In response, she tightened her own right back.

And he breathed those memories away.

Then, for the last few moments of the elevator ride, the darkness finally receded.

Then the only thing left was Natasha.

All Clint was aware of for those blessed silent seconds was _her_.

The smell of gunpowder and sweat was stronger than it usually was, almost overpowering the vanilla of whatever shampoo she used. The combination was so familiar it was practically tangible. She was real and solid.

The elevator glided to a stop but she didn't move. She wouldn't withdraw the touch until he did. It was an unspoken understanding between them. When physical comfort was needed, it was offered without reservation, silently and without fanfare. And it was never withdrawn, not until it was actively rejected.

The doors were open now, Stark and Thor already shuffling out into the large, grand elevator landing area.

So Clint drew on every last reserve of strength he had and lifted his head, drawing in a fortifying breath. Natasha shifted in front of him and he loosened his grip on her hand, letting her pull away fully.

She did, but Clint remained where he was, folded into the corner of the elevator.

He hadn't let himself think about it on the elevator ride up – he'd been too distracted with Natasha anyway. But there was no escaping it now.

He had to face Loki.

 _Loki_.

" _Show me what you fear!"_

" _You have shown me your heart, Agent Barton…"_

" _Now I will show you how I will destroy it!"_

" _I will break you and leave you shattered on the ground!"_

Loki's voice echoed through his head and no matter how he tried…he couldn't make himself move. He stayed perfectly still, hands braced casually on the rail behind him. He was sure he looked as relaxed as could be, but inside he felt like screaming. He felt like running away, driving like hell and never looking back.

Natasha would come with him, he knew, but he couldn't leave Phil.

 _Phil_ …where was Phil? He hadn't even tried to contact him. Clint had been certain the man would have at least reached out. His mother-hen tendencies should have demanded he at least hear Clint's voice for himself.

His wonderings about his handler were effectively distracting him from the current situation, but he still hadn't moved.

Stark and Thor were already off the elevator, blinking back at the rest of them in confusion. Natasha had frozen mid step, sensing the change in Clint's emotional state. And Rogers had only pushed himself away from the corner, but was now watching Clint with that assessing gaze again.

"Wanna lead the way, Barton?" the Captain asked calmly.

Clint resisted the sudden urge to laugh hysterically.

Did he want to lead the way? Abso-fuckin-lutely NOT. He never wanted to see the bastard again, much less _lead_ the way to him.

"Maybe you can do the honors of letting him know we mean business."

Clint shifted his gaze to Rogers now. The Captain tilted his chin at Clint's bow.

"Seems an effective tool for the job."

Clint could only stare at him. What Rogers was offering him, it was big. He was giving him a chance to face Loki on his own terms, with his greatest advantage brandished before him like a shield.

Rogers was letting him cut to the front of the line, which when it came to people that hated Loki, was very long.

Natasha's hand brushed lightly against his, drawing his gaze to hers. She dipped her head slightly in encouragement and Clint drew in a breath. He nodded back, tightening his hand on his bow and stepping off the elevator.

Once he was moving, it was easy to keep going. He stalked past Stark and Thor, who fell into step behind him without comment. He spotted Loki stirring at the bottom of a pile of rubble. He drew an arrow from his quiver and nocked it without breaking stride. He barely noticed Hulk lumber over to fall in with the team.

He only had eyes for Loki.

The god was crawling his way out of the rubble and Clint moved to meet him, drawing back his bowstring and coming to a stop at the edge of the pile. He sighted Loki's eye and waited.

A moment later the god looked up, going still at the sight greeting him.

For just a moment, so brief Clint wasn't convinced he hadn't just imagined it, their gazes locked and he saw _fear_. Maybe Loki saw the hatred and anger Clint wasn't trying to hide. Maybe he wasn't so confident in his ability to survive an arrow to the eye.

Maybe he'd realized that when Clint made a promise, he kept it.

" _Someday soon…I'll be_ _ **your**_ _greatest fear too."_

Their gazes remained locked for only a moment longer. Clint almost fired, almost just said 'to hell with it' and put the arrow in the son of a bitch's eye. But he didn't. Because Loki looking at him and knowing he _could_ – being afraid that he _would_ – was pretty damn satisfying all on its own.

When Loki realized he'd been granted a reprieve, he broke his gaze away, giving Stark a wry look.

"If it's all the same to you, I'll have that drink now."

Clint almost changed his mind about being satisfied with Loki's fear and nearly loosed the arrow right then, just on fucking principle. The son of a bitch had rained down chaos and destruction on innocent people, had stolen Clint's freedom and bent him to his will and wreaked havoc on his mind, and had done it all with a cruel, silky smile. Now he was making light of it, was making a goddamned joke.

He wanted to kill him, almost more than he'd wanted to ever kill anybody. Only one man had ever ranked above Loki in that respect, and Matthew Williams _was_ dead – put down by Clint himself.

A large hand landed with surprising lightness on his right forearm, carefully urging him to lower his bow. He resisted and turned a glare on the perpetrator.

Thor.

The god's gaze was full of more understanding than Clint thought was possible.

"You may stand down, noble archer. He will do no more harm."

Clint hesitated an extra moment and then lowered his bow. Loki was Thor's brother, for better or worse. Clint had a brother once and even after everything Barney had done to him, Clint would never want to see him dead. He couldn't force on Thor what he, himself, wouldn't be able to stomach.

Thor stalked to Loki and hauled him up.

"I shall return him to SHIELD and see him contained."

Then, without giving any of them a chance to argue, Thor frog marched his brother towards the broken windows, twirling his hammer as he prepared to take flight.

Stark turned and yelled after him a moment before he leapt from the window.

"Meet us at shawarma!"

Then Thor was gone and Stark turned back to face the rest of them, clapping his hands together.

"Shall we?"

* * *

_End of Chapter 10_

_Wowza that was a long chapter! I bet none of you minded that though. A lot of action! It was fun writing Clint's POV in the battle, especially since we saw very LITTLE of it in the movie so I got to do whatever I wanted! Look at that, though, the battle is over and we are only a little over halfway through the story...you know what that means? Angst and fallout...prepare yourselves._

_I ask of you only one thing...well TWO things...one, drop me a line down there in the review box. two, meet me back here tomorrow for the next chapter. Speaking of, here's your preview!_

* * *

_His fingers were curled around the black blanket that served as their bedspread, his knuckles were white. Natasha's hand over his actually looked tan in comparison._

_"You keep doing that."_

_He blinked, for some reason unable to look away from their hands even as he forced his fingers to unclench._

_"Doing what?" he asked._

_"Zoning out. I called your name twice."_


	11. Everybody, Come Take My Hand

_Disclaimer: I do not own "The Avengers" or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works. I do not claim any of the directly quoted lines from "The Avengers" as my own, they belong to Marvel and the writers._ _The cover art came from a google search with the original source being pinterest where it was credited to Anthony Genuardi._

 _Author's Note: While I embrace_ **_constructive_ ** _criticism, remember this old saying if you choose to leave a review "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all"_

* * *

_I forgot my charger for my laptop back in Texas and my replacement won't be here until tomorrow. SO. I apologize for not thanking everyone that reviewed and for not answering questions quite yet. But I only have 10% battery left and getting this posted was the priority! That being said, tomorrow's update might come later than normal because I have to wait for my charger cord to arrive so I can use my laptop *rolls eyes at self*_

 

 _A million thanks to my betas_ **Kylen** _and_ **JRBarton** _for everything they do for me :) And finally the idea to have the council be the reason for their delay yesterday was Kylen's idea, she suggested it and I ran with it. :)_

_Onward!_

* * *

_Last time in The Untold Stories:_

_"I shall return him to SHIELD and see him contained."_

_Then, without giving any of them a chance to argue, Thor frog marched his brother towards the broken windows, twirling his hammer as he prepared to take flight._

_Stark turned and yelled after him a moment before he leapt from the window._

_"Meet us at shawarma!"_

_Then Thor was gone and Stark turned back to face the rest of them, clapping his hands together._

_"Shall we?"_

* * *

_No one won the last war, and no one will win the next war.  
**Eleanor Roosevelt**_

* * *

_April 13, 2012_  
_12:30 p.m.  
_ _Shawarma_

* * *

Natasha chewed mechanically, listening to the silence around the table. Everyone was eating their shawarma quietly, too exhausted to make conversation.

Well, everyone was eating except Steve and Clint.

Steve, she was fairly certain, just wasn't all that fond of the food. His All-American tastebuds just weren't up to experimentation at the moment.

And Clint…for someone who hadn't eaten in days, food didn't seem to interest him much at all. He just sat, left foot propped behind her on her chair and his basket of food in his lap. But he was really just picking it apart, eyes distant and focused on nothing in particular.

Every now and then he would tense inexplicably and his gaze would focus. He'd shift a sharp look at her and then relax again. Whatever comfort her presence was providing, she was glad to provide it.

Clearing his throat and lifting his head from where it rested on his fist, Rogers spoke up.

"We should all take some time. Take care of your injuries, take a breath." His gaze settled on Clint then and then shifted to Stark.

"I would like to return Loki to Asgard as soon as possible," Thor spoke up, his rumbling voice drawing even Clint's attention. Though, Natasha thought that may have had more to do with Loki's name being spoken.

Steve nodded.

"Probably best."

"Anybody else get a vote?" Stark spoke up. "How can we be certain Goldilocks here will hand out proper justice? The son of a bitch _is_ his brother."

Thor leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his broad chest.

"I can assure you, Loki's crimes will not go unpunished. He will meet justice on Asgard." Thor's gaze shifted to rest on Clint, who just stared back tiredly. "For _all_ that he has done."

Natasha chewed the inside of her lip, hoping that was enough for Clint. She didn't think it would be, not once he knew the truth.

"Does SHIELD have him properly contained?" Rogers asked and Thor nodded.

"I ensured it before I left him in their care."

Rogers nodded curtly.

"Then take a few hours, everybody. We'll meet back at say," he glanced around for a clock, but found none. "What time _is_ it anyway?"

Stark, never without a piece of technology, produced a phone from somewhere on his person.

"12:33."

Steve nodded.

"We meet back at 3." He glanced around the table. "Central Park sound like as good a place as any?"

Banner was the only one who agreed verbally, but she nodded, glancing at Clint. He was looking down at his food again, tuning out.

When she looked back at Rogers, he was watching Clint too. His gaze shifted to hers and she could only describe his expression as sympathetic. He sighed suddenly and looked around.

"I'm done, anybody else?" he questioned tiredly.

He got a chorus of affirmations and suddenly they were all in motion.

Natasha turned to face Clint. He hadn't moved. She reached and pulled his basket of food off his lap, tossing it on the table. He flinched very subtly, but the small reaction spoke to his distraction. He raised his gaze to hers in question.

"Ready to get out of here?" she asked quietly.

He only nodded and wearily pulled his foot from where it rested on her chair.

She didn't offer to help him when he stood and wavered, not with the rest of the team there. She let him catch himself on the edge of the table, and just stood silently at his side.

"You good, Barton?" Rogers asked carefully as he rounded the table towards them.

"'M fine."

The usual lie was even less believable than normal, but Natasha supposed she couldn't expect anything else. Rogers was looking more concerned by the second.

"I got him," she assured, shifting a step closer to Clint, placing herself between the Captain and her partner. It was irrational, sure, but the urge to protect him was overwhelming right now. Even if it was just protecting his pride.

Rogers nodded slowly and continued around the table, joining Stark, Banner, and Thor in heading for the door. Natasha returned her attention to Clint.

"Can you walk out of here?"

He nodded sharply and drew in a deep breath. Then he pushed off the table and straightened. She moved his chair out of the way and fell into step next to him as he limped towards the door.

The farewells in the street were brief, everyone having their own wounds to lick.

As soon as they were alone, Natasha started looking for a car to steal. Walking to Brooklyn was out of the question on a normal day, and today she wasn't sure Clint could manage walking ten more yards.

It didn't take long to find a suitable abandoned car to hotwire. She didn't even have to break in. The door was just hanging open. It was a hard-topped Jeep 4x4 and would handle the chaotic terrain better than all the sedans they'd passed. She nudged Clint around to the passenger side and pulled the door open.

He let her help him climb in with a lethargic kind of compliance, but stopped her from shutting the door for him.

"I got it," he assured quietly, wrapping his hand around the handle.

Natasha nodded and moved around to the driver's side. She heard the door shut with a slam and climbed into the driver's seat.

"Keys are in it," Clint informed her when she pulled her own door closed.

Small mercies. She hated hotwiring cars. She always cut her fingers. Though cut finger tips would have been the least of her worries on a day like today.

She cranked the engine and put her foot on the gas.

She navigated her way through the worst of the damage easily and quickly. Clint may be better on a motorcycle than her, but she was easily his equal in a car. It made getting through the city to the bridge easy enough.

It was strange. The Brooklyn Bridge was completely abandoned. She'd never seen it like that. Untouched by the chaos that had enveloped Manhattan, it stood empty like a lonely mountain.

She floored the accelerator, eating up the distance across the bridge in seconds.

They abandoned the Jeep a couple blocks from their safe house – it was off even SHIELD's books and they wanted to keep it that way – and made the rest of the way slowly on foot. They stuck to back alleys and side streets, not wanting the attention their attire and haggard appearance would attract.

Natasha supported him now, since there was no one but the shadows to see them. He had an arm wrapped around her shoulders and another braced against his ribs. He kept his head down, his usual vigilance fading in the way of exhaustion. She was honestly just relieved that beyond an initial flinch, he showed no consistent sign of whatever dark thoughts haunted him. But even so, she'd felt him tense and nearly pull away more than once. All she could do was tighten her hold and hope it was enough to keep him grounded.

Their safe house was comprised of the top floor of a narrow building above a 24-hour pizza place. Six flights of stairs to conquer and no elevator.

They paused at the base of the stairwell, both looking up at it tiredly.

"Whose idea was it to get a sixth-floor walkup?" Clint asked even as he started forward, prompting Natasha to move with him.

"Yours," she answered bluntly with a mockingly accusing note to her voice.

Clint huffed.

"Seemed like a good idea at the time." He clenched his jaw against some hidden pain and then went on. "Not so much _now_."

"I wanted the one with the elevator…but no," she teased gently as they rounded the landing on the second floor and started up the second flight, "you wanted the one with roof access and 24-hour pizza."

"Quick exits are important and pizza is practically its own food group," he defended, his right hand reaching out to grip the rickety railing, using it as extra leverage to propel himself forward. Natasha did her best to do the same from his left.

"I think you called the stairs good cardio too," Natasha added.

"Like either of us need extra cardio." He leaned more heavily on her as they rounded the next landing until the next rail was in reach. Then it was back to pulling himself up a step and sliding his hand up. Repeat.

"I think I mentioned all the other ways we can get cardio _without_ having to walk up six flights of stairs," Natasha went on, mostly just to distract him.

Clint grinned.

"You mentioned sex on that list… _repeatedly_."

Natasha smirked and hauled him around the next landing.

"Did not." But she had. She'd been pulling out all the stops to convince him to get the other apartment they'd been looking at. Somehow she'd still lost.

"I counted six."

Natasha laughed outright.

"You counted?"

"Sex is very important to me."

Natasha chuckled and had to pull him a little more to get him off the last step and onto the fifth floor landing. His steps lost a little coordination as they rounded the last landing and when he wrapped his hand around the next railing, he made no effort to pull himself forward.

"I'm so goddamned tired, Tasha…"

"I know you are, мой ястреб, we're almost there," she promised.

She shifted her grip on him, trying to jostle some energy back into him.

His arm tightened momentarily around her shoulder and then lifted his head, finally starting forward.

She had to give him credit. He made it all the way up the stairs and to their door. He even managed to stay upright when she propped him against the wall so she could dig her key out of her boot – she always kept it on her when she was in the city, just in case. She had the same habit in every other city they kept safe houses in.

Four locks and a keypad entry later, she was pushing the door open.

She pulled his arm back over her shoulder and helped him into the entry way. He pushed himself away from her once they were inside, reaching to the wall for support. The action freed her to turn and re-engage all the locks and key in the security code.

Paranoia was an engrained attribute neither of them were likely to shake anytime soon.

The locks done, she turned to face him. He was leaning pathetically against the wall, braced on his shoulder. His head had dipped sideways, allowing his forehead to rest against the drywall. His arm closest to the wall was hanging limply, but he had his other bent, fingers pressed into the smooth surface of the paint as if the touch alone was keeping him from toppling over.

"You need to sleep," she stated bluntly.

"We have to be at the park in less than two hours," he offered by way of response. "I go down now, I'm not getting up for a while. Better just to keep moving forward."

It would have been a more compelling argument if he'd bothered to lift his head from the wall.

"Can you?" she asked seriously.

He rolled backwards until both his shoulder blades were pressed against the wall and then a moment later put what seemed like monumental effort into pulling his head forward to meet her eyes.

"I have to."

She nodded and sighed. She got it, God help her. He needed to be there to watch Loki leave for good. She understood. But damn it, it didn't make it any easier to watch him stand there and suffer in silence. He was hurt and exhausted, having been through God knows what over the last two and a half days. And he didn't even know the worst of it yet.

"You know what I want?" he said suddenly, his head having dropped back against the wall again.

"A stiff drink?" she wondered idly, though she knew that wasn't the answer. _She_ could use one though. She glanced towards the kitchen, wondering if she had a bottle of Vodka somewhere. His lips quirked in vague amusement.

"A shower," he corrected. He pulled his head forward again and met her gaze. "A very hot shower."

She smiled.

" _That_ we can make happen. Come on."

She moved to his side, relieved when he wrapped his arm around her shoulder willingly. The effect of Loki's manipulation concerning her seemed to be losing its hold. Or maybe he was just forgetting it, like he'd forgotten the rest of his time with Loki and the attack on the carrier. And _that_ was a mercy, in her opinion.

Their apartment was fairly large and open, the only real walls being the ones that encased the bathroom. Their bed sat on the same end of the room as the bathroom, and the opposite end of the apartment housed the kitchen and living area. Between the two was an open space with a sparring mat on the floor and double doors that led to a balcony. That balcony had a ladder to the roof – Clint's main reason for wanting the place.

When they made it to the bathroom, she propped him against the counter and moved to the walk-in shower, flipping on the water and turning it to his favorite temperature – just a shade below scalding hot. She left the water to heat and turned back to him in time to see he'd unzipped the front of his uniform top and was slowly trying to ease his way out of it.

He had his hip propped against the counter to stay upright. Judging by the fresh sweat she could see on his face, the tense set of his jaw, and the tightness around his eyes, trying to get the top off was proving more taxing than it should have been.

She moved closer without asking – making sure he saw her – and reached for the edge of the uniform, carefully helping him guide his right arm through and to freedom. One arm now free, he hunched forward, bracing his right hand on the counter and biting back a groan as Natasha shifted the uniform off his back and moved to his other side to slide it off his left arm.

She didn't see the glass until after she'd tossed the uniform top out the bathroom door and turned back to him.

"Jesus, Clint!" She flipped on the bathroom light – previously left off in deference to his concussion – and leaned to inspect the various shards imbedded in his lower back. "Why didn't you say something?" Even as he responded, her eyes drifted up to the numerous bruises spread across his shoulders and the rest of his back, some fresh, some older.

"And do what? Strip down in the streets so you could play doctor? Nothing you could have done before now."

"I could have _known_ ," she shot back sharply as she dropped to a crouch and dug into the cabinet under the sink for their large, well-stocked first aid kit. She found a pair of tweezers easily enough and stood. Clint was still hunched awkwardly over the counter, his left hand braced in an effort to stay upright and his right pressing against the skin over his ribs – which she could see now was already painted in blotchy blues and purples. She'd pushed it to the side of her mind to deal with later.

"I've gotta get this glass out."

He grunted something that sounded vaguely like acknowledgement but didn't lift his head from where his chin was resting against his chest. He seemed to be preoccupied taking slow, even breaths and trying to contain whatever pain he was in.

Natasha clenched her jaw, drew in a deep breath and went after the glass. She didn't pause when he drew in a sharp breath as she pulled out the first shard. She resolutely kept working when the hand on his ribs shifted to the counter and wrapped around the edge so tightly his entire hand was turning white.

By the time she was done, her jaw hurt from clenching it so hard. She slid the tweezers onto the counter and drew her hand away from them as if they were a venomous snake preparing to strike. She hated this part, hated seeing firsthand the abuse his body often took, hated even more causing additional pain in an attempt to help.

She raised her eyes to take in what little bit of his face she could see. His head was still bowed and she could barely see his right eye and eyebrow over his shoulder. His eyes were closed. She could see his shoulders rising and falling with forcibly even breaths.

Suffering in silence. That was one of Clint's go-to moves. Like pain was a weakness. Like showing it to anybody made him worth _less_ somehow. She didn't know where he'd learned that lesson. But she knew where _she_ had – the Red Room had made sure she knew it well.

But she'd also learned – had been taught by Clint himself – that some people didn't count as just 'anybody.' That he would never see her pain as a weakness. That he would never use it against her. That she had at least one person she never had to hide anything from.

She never seemed to remember that on her own though. He always had to remind her.

And she would always remind _him_ that door swung both ways.

She carefully rested her hands on the bare skin of his back. He flinched, but didn't draw away. Gently, she ran her hands down along his side, feeling for breaks in his ribs even as she moved around to stand in front of him.

Definite breaks, several of them.

His eyes were still closed, his jaw tightly clenched. His nose flared as he breathed, controlling the pain, channeling it into something else – stubbornness, no doubt. He was angled slightly towards the counter, both hands currently being employed to keep his torso upright.

He was pale, paler than he'd been even an hour ago. It made the bruises stand out even darker against his skin. As she watched him, she saw a subtle tremble had settled in. It was nothing extreme or overtly obvious, but it was there.

Maybe it was the strain of trying to keep up the front. Maybe everything that had happened in the last few days was just piling on too heavily. Whatever its cause, that tremble made her chest clench.

"Clint…" she called quietly, shifting her left hand up to his shoulder. "It's just me here."

When he turned his face slightly away from her, stubborn as usual, she moved her other hand to frame his jaw, gently pulling his face back towards her.

"You don't have to hide it," she told him softly. She felt the muscle in his jaw flex, but he didn't fight her when she continued to turn him. Using her hand on his face and the other on his shoulder, she eased his body around to face her instead of the counter.

He was forced to release his iron grip on the counter with his right hand, but she just directed his hand to her shoulder, telling him without words that he could use her as support, that she wouldn't let him fall. His hand slid across her shoulder until his elbow was braced there instead and his forearm was bent across the back of her neck.

She drew his head forward until their foreheads touched and then went still, her hand still framing his jaw. For several moments they stood in silence, steam slowly filling the air around them. Natasha stayed still – but for her thumb slowly brushing back and forth on the skin in front of his ear – and watched his face as best she could from her close proximity.

He was working to embrace the pain now, instead of conceal it. She could see more tense lines appearing around his eyes and mouth in response. His arm across the back of her neck tensed and tightened, jerking her half a step closer.

Acknowledging pain was counterproductive in many circumstances. They lived their lives in the heat of battle. You couldn't focus on the bullet in your ribs or your busted knee when you were fighting for survival. But in the quiet moments after, ignoring the pain became dangerous. Hiding it from those that could help became a liability. But it was a habit, as ingrained as brushing your teeth before bed or which shoe you put on first. Habits didn't switch themselves off, you had to force yourself to break from those patterns.

He was doing that now. And at the same time, she knew he'd be cataloguing his injuries and determining their severity the best he could. The trembling had increased and a low groan was rising from somewhere in his chest. His breathing had sped up to a pant and she could feel his brow furrowing against hers.

Finally, several minutes later, he started to relax again.

"Anything I can't handle?" she asked after his breathing started to even out once more.

He started to speak, only to have to pause and clear his throat before he tried again. But when he did, his voice sounded rough and worn.

"Busted ribs, but breathing's fine. Nothing to be done about the concussion. Did something to my leg, but doesn't feel serious. Other than that…" he shrugged slightly. "The glass…cuts, bruises…my back feels like somebody took a baseball bat to it."

"Yeah, well, it looked like it, too. The shower will loosen it up."

"Hmmmm," he hummed. "Shower sounds nice."

"Then let's make it happen. Ready to work on the rest of the uniform?"

He nodded against her forehead and she pulled back, reaching to flip down the lid of the toilet. He shuffled himself along the edge of the counter and sank down onto the lid with a groan.

Natasha crouched, going after his boot laces. The right one came off easily enough. With his hands braced on her shoulders, he even helped pull his foot free. The left, however, had him tightening his hands and staying her movements after the first tug.

"What is it?" she asked, snapping her eyes up to his.

Sweat had broken out on his forehead, but she wondered if that was more from the steam than anything else.

"Gotta go looser," he was panting again, "I can't…there's no give."

She dutifully worked on the laces again, loosening them as far as possible and spreading the edges of the boot as much as she could. She glanced up at him in question before trying to remove the boot again. He nodded, jaw clenched.

She pulled. The sound he emitted was halfway between a snarl of anger and groan of pain, but after a joint effort, she got the boot off the swollen ankle and foot.

"You sure this isn't broken? Nothing torn?" she asked as she peeled his sock away and examined the joint. It was nothing but a puffy bruise. It looked painful. How he'd been walking on it as beyond her.

"Nah…just been aggravating it."

She nodded, taking him at his word for now. He tended to understate injuries, though, so she made a mental note to keep an eye on it.

She unstrapped his arm guard next and pulled off his shooting glove, tossing them both on the counter.

"All right," she stood, "up."

Obediently, he braced one hand on the counter and let her pull with the other. He was standing a moment later. She reached back to the two sheaths he always kept tucked into the back of his pants. A moment later she had two knives in her hands.

Without meaning to, she was back on the carrier, watching him pull one on her – the one _she'd_ given him.

She blinked away the memory, hoping he hadn't caught on. A glance up at his face showed him to be staring at something over her right shoulder, gaze distant. Not entirely comforted by him being lost in his own mind, she purposefully nudged him as she leaned to put the knives on the counter. When she looked back at him, his attention was on her again.

The smirk that quirked up the corner of his mouth when she started working on his belt, felt like a ray of sunshine on a cloudy day. It was so genuine and so _Clint_.

She knew what he was thinking even if he didn't have the energy to say it.

"You know, when I imagined getting you out of these pants, this isn't quite what I had in mind," she said for him.

Her comment drew an honest to God _smile_.

"You imagined getting me out of these pants?"

She smirked and slid them down over his hips, leaning in momentarily so her mouth was next to his ear.

"Often."

Then she crouched to slide them down the rest of the way. She'd made sure to hook a finger on his boxers too and pulled them down at the same time. That was when she caught sight of his left knee – _also_ swollen and bruised, if not as severely as his ankle. Then, even that got shoved from her mind when he nearly lost his balance shifting from one foot to the other to get his feet clear. Clint and balance were practically synonymous terms, lack of it was cause for immediate alarm.

Natasha shot her hand up to catch his elbow and looked to his face to check his level of consciousness.

His eyes were closed, but the furrow in his brow told her he was _very_ conscious and working through some fresh pain.

"Okay?" she asked as she tossed the pants towards the door and straightened.

He hummed a positive response and opened his eyes, looking immediately to the shower. Natasha followed his gaze and sighed.

Sometimes blunt was best.

"Are you going to pass out if I let you do this alone?"

He looked to be seriously contemplating his answer, and that was almost answer enough. He opened his mouth to respond, but then abruptly snapped it shut, eyes focusing on her with alarming intensity.

"What?" she asked in confusion.

"You're hurt." His hand went to carefully inspect the cut in her hairline that had sent blood leaking down her temple.

She was actually surprised that hadn't come up before now, usually he zeroed in on her injuries before he even acknowledged his own.

"Nothing serious," she promised. She was pretty sure it wasn't even a lie.

His gaze narrowed.

"Look, get in the shower, I'll peel my way out of this damn suit and join you. You can see for yourself then, okay?"

For a moment, he looked like he'd reject some part of the offer, but then he just sighed and nodded wearily. She nodded back and let him use her shoulder to limp his way over to the shower. She got him to where he was standing under the spray, hands braced under the shower head, and his head bowed forward so the water was hitting the base of his neck and running down his back.

She left the curtain open enough that she would see if he started to go down, and then begun working on her own uniform. She started with her boots, grimacing when her own ribs flared in protest as she leaned over. It was impossible to ignore now that she didn't have Clint to focus on. When she was finally free of those, she unzipped her uniform. Her own various aches and pains made themselves known as she peeled the tight fitting cat-suit off her body.

Easing her way out of her sports bra nearly made her groan. As soon as she was free of it, she kicked her way out of her underwear and headed straight for the shower.

Clint hadn't moved.

She stepped in behind him, rustling the curtain to let him know she was there.

He turned immediately, eyes scanning her body. He zeroed in on her ribs right away, calloused hands going to feel for breaks without waiting for permission. After a moment, his hands stilled and she watched his jaw clench.

"Did I…"

"No," she assured immediately. "You didn't do this. It happened in the battle."

He didn't look entirely convinced, so she went on.

"You didn't hurt me, Clint. You got me locked in with that knife because I wasn't committed."

He arched an eyebrow.

"You were holding back?"

She tilted her head, surprised he hadn't worked that out for himself already.

"Of course I was." She hardened her gaze. "I wasn't going to try and kill you, Clint." Even if it had meant he killed _her_. It wasn't a distance she was willing to go. He, of all people, should understand. He'd done the same damn thing when she attacked him in Germany.

The revelation seemed to first stun him, then something in his gaze shifted…like he remembered something…and whatever that was seemed to gut him.

"Natasha…"

"Stop it," she scolded. "Don't even go there. What's done is done. We both made it out, focus on that."

He scowled slightly, gaze going back to where his hand still rested over her broken ribs. She sighed and pulled his hand away.

"I'll be okay. Right now I'm more worried about _you_."

He stared at her, blinking slowly.

"I think…" he hesitated briefly, as if checking the validity of his next words before he said them, "maybe, I'll be okay too."

Natasha smiled warmly. He didn't have to spell it out for her to know he wasn't talking about anything physical. He didn't sound certain, but he sounded hopeful. Hopeful that he would recover from whatever Loki had done to him.

She forced her smile to remain genuine, even as her mind taunted her with her lie, with the truth he didn't know.

"I know you will." She pushed onto her tiptoes and kissed him lightly. "Now, let's get to work with the soap because, honestly, Clint…you stink."

" _Hey_."

He sounded so righteously _offended_ , that she couldn't help but laugh.

* * *

She wasn't laughing later when he nearly passed out when she rubbed the washcloth over a particularly tender spot on his back. Catching him from slamming his head on the tile wall had nearly sent them both crashing to the floor of the shower.

And she wasn't laughing when she forced his head up so she could investigate the dark bruising that circled the underside of his jaw.

"Loki?" she asked.

He didn't answer. She took that as a 'yes' even if he couldn't actually remember it happening anymore. Even as her gaze lingered on the bruising, another mark – this one a scar – stole her attention. Without thinking about it, she brushed the tip of her finger over the thin, raised line back at the place where his jaw curved down to his neck. It was still pink, still new, barely four months old. It was a more permanent reminder of another time she'd almost lost him. It had been the sins of her _own_ past that had nearly stolen him from her then. It had been Alexi.

She drew back when he flinched away from the light touch, but didn't apologize. He didn't comment either so she let the moment pass.

When they were finally both rid of the blood and grime, she turned off the shower and retrieved them both towels. She wrapped hers around her torso and then grabbed another to wrap up her hair and keep it from dripping fresh water on her drying skin.

She eyed Clint as he slowly and carefully patted himself dry. She needed to go get them some clean clothes from the closet.

"I'm good," he stated suddenly, as if reading her mind. "Not gonna pass out."

The shower seemed to have breathed a second – _Third? Fourth? –_ wind into him because he seemed steadier. Even so, Natasha made quick work of grabbing them both fresh clothes. She tossed the pants and shirts onto the bed and brought the underwear into the bathroom.

In the 60 seconds she'd been gone, he'd sunk back onto the toilet lid, towel around his waist and head supported in his hands. She almost asked if he was okay. But before she could, he lifted his head, steady gaze meeting hers.

Still with it, that was good.

"Here." She held out a pair of boxers. "Get those on and let me look at those cuts on your back."

While he busied himself with the task of getting his boxers on – and if the sharp intakes of breath were anything to go by, it was an arduous process – she lifted the first aid kit from where she'd left it on the floor to the counter. A moment later she had antibiotic ointment, gauze, and tape in hand. He was back on the toilet lid, but spun slowly to make his back available to her.

She'd made sure to clean the cuts in the shower, so now it was a simple task of smearing the antibiotic over them and covering them with the gauze. Most of them had already clotted and stopped bleeding. But there was one, the deepest, that she deemed would need more than just gauze.

"You've got a pretty deep one here...gonna need a couple stitches."

He didn't do anything but vaguely hum acknowledgement. He'd dropped his head back into his hands, his elbows now braced on his knees. The position had to be hell on his ribs, the only thing she could figure was he was too tired to keep himself upright.

The stitches were an easy task, one she'd done too many times before, and a few minutes later that cut was bandaged too. There was nothing to be done for the ribs except keep him out of trouble until they healed and the bruises would fade in time.

But as she stared at his hunched back and cradled head, she wondered if she'd missed something – if there was some hidden injury he hadn't told her about.

"Head hurt?" she asked quietly as she busied herself drying off and slipping into her bra and underwear. Reaching back to snap the bra closed _hurt_ , but she didn't allow herself anything more than a wince.

She glanced at him when he didn't respond. He hadn't even moved. His eyes were closed and his jaw clenched.

"Clint?"

"Where's Phil?"

She froze for a half a breath. She'd prepared for this, had planned her lies. She'd been able to pull it off back when he first woke up, when he was still reeling from Loki's control and struggling to think straight. It would be harder now. She'd have to sell it.

She started towel drying her hair and glanced his way, keeping her gaze open and honest as she answered.

"At this point? Probably doing damage control. There's a lot of messes to clean up right now, not the least of which is the disaster area we left in downtown Manhattan."

"Does he blame me?"

"What?" she asked sharply. Where had _that_ come from?

Clint finally raised his head, or at least turned it so he could look at her but still hold it up with one hand.

"He hasn't checked in, not _once_. It's not like him…unless he's pissed at me, like with Uzbekistan."

Natasha abandoned her hair towel on the counter and went to kneel in front of him.

"He's not pissed at you. And he _did_ check on you, Clint. He was there before you woke up. He didn't leave until he knew you were going to be okay."

The lie felt bitter on her tongue, but she didn't break her gaze from his. She didn't give him any reason to doubt her words.

He stared at her, eyes searching, and the genuine confusion in his gaze told her he was buying it.

"He hasn't even _called_ , Nat…the battle's been over for a while now and he hasn't even called."

Natasha didn't have to fake the sympathy in her expression.

"Maybe he tried?" she offered with a slight shrug. "The cell towers are probably so overloaded right now maybe he just can't get through."

He frowned a little, but she could tell by the look in his eyes that he saw the logic in that. Natasha reached for his hand and gave it a squeeze…then she pushed the lie home.

"If he could be here, Clint, he would be. You _know_ that."

He sighed.

"Yeah." He reached to rub at his eyes. "You're right."

She thought it was over then, that she'd made it past this hurdle. But then Clint spoke again, stalling her push back up to standing.

"He's okay though, right? He stayed clear in the carrier attack?"

She met his gaze and saw the worry there. She shifted her lips into a comforting smile.

"He's okay, Clint."

Some of the worry left his gaze as he accepted her words without question – trusted her to be straight with him. She forced herself to ignore the knot in her stomach and pushed herself to standing. She told herself it was almost over, that Loki was almost gone.

"Not that I'd blame him for skipping out on me, though," Clint muttered under his breath. "After the shit storm I brought down, I wouldn't want to talk to me either."

Natasha sighed. Clint and his damn self-worth issues. She needed to cut that train of thought off at its knees. And she wouldn't even have to lie to do it.

"What happened with Loki wasn't your fault. I'm going to keep telling you that until you believe it. Phil doesn't blame you, I don't blame you, _nobody_ blames you." Anybody that _did_ would have her to contend with.

He met her gaze then, eyes steady and deadly serious.

"Well, _I_ blame me."

She quirked her lips sadly.

"Yeah, well, you always do."

Clint's mouth turned down in a slight frown, but he didn't dispute the accusation. How could he? It was _true_.

"Now come on," she squeezed his unbruised knee, "let's get dressed. That company car you stole is still in the garage a block over, we'll take that back to the city."

Clint chuckled slightly.

"Stan over in transportation _still_ thinks he lost it. Slipping a copy of the key back into the lockbox really sold it."

Natasha grinned. This was one of Clint's more elaborate and ongoing pranks amongst the SHIELD staff. Stan from transportation had given Clint shit about bringing a car back with bullet holes once. Clint, a bullet hole in _himself_ at the time, had deemed Stan a viable target from that point on.

Hence the ruse of Stan misplacing an entire vehicle when, in fact, it had never been turned back in. He'd even gone so far as to falsify the vehicle log book and make a fake key. Not even Phil knew the truth.

With her help, he levered himself up again and together they left the bathroom.

Getting dressed entailed more muffled groans and winces than it usually did, but eventually they were both clothed with jackets on the bed next to them. They sat, side by side, staring at the closet door and trying to pretend it wasn't taking every shred of energy they had just to stay conscious.

* * *

Clint was starting to wonder if a percussion band had _literally_ moved into his brain when he wasn't looking when Natasha's shoulder nudged against his.

"We have a few minutes, want to try and eat something? You barely touched the shawarma."

He shook his head immediately and then regretted the action _intensely_ because his head felt like it was about to explode. The drumline in his brain picked up tempo and he reached to rub his temple.

How was it that Loki was no longer setting up camp in his head but he still felt like his brain was going round after round with a baseball bat?

"Clint, you haven't eaten in days, you said so yourself. You'll feel better if you do."

He just shook his head again, prompting her to sigh in frustration.

He owed her at least some form of explanation.

"Nat, in less than an hour, I've got to look the bastard in the face again and this time without the adrenaline and the arrow pointed at his eye. I got no idea what's going to come to the surface when I do, but it won't be anything good. I'd rather not have a stomach full of crap to puke everywhere if it's bad."

He actually knew pretty much exactly what memories would surface when he looked at Loki. Memories of the god ripping apart his mind and making it his own personal playground. If the physical pain there hadn't been enough, the extra hit that came with forcing him to acknowledge his worst fears was just the goddamned icing on the cake.

His head pounded again.

Then, of course, there was what Loki had made him want to do to Natasha…his stomach rolled. He had to swallow and draw in a slow breath to keep down what little shawarma he _had_ eaten.

"So you don't remember?" she asked quietly. "What he did to you?"

He kept his gaze on the closet door and made sure his voice was as even as possible.

"No, not a damn thing. Whatever was left faded during the battle." He looked at her then and did his best to sell the lie. "I get the feeling that's a good thing, though."

He wished to God he didn't remember, that it was all as blank as he claimed it to be.

Her lips quirked sympathetically.

"Yeah, maybe."

The compulsion to tell her the truth hit him hard then. She, of _anyone_ , would understand. She'd even be able to relate. But admitting the truth meant opening himself up to questions. It meant purposefully thinking back over the last few days and putting all the pain and horrors to words.

He just wanted to forget it, all of it.

He didn't want to think about what it meant that he'd been so aware, that he'd been _himself_ , in at least some way. He didn't want to talk about how much he'd _needed_ to hurt her, even when he felt nothing else, he'd felt _that._

Then there were all the people he'd killed. Countless murdered by his hand, even more by his order.

In the end, he didn't think Loki had actually _changed_ anything about him. He'd just unbridled the darkness Clint usually kept in careful check.

He'd set free Clint's worst, darkest self.

He'd, without even realizing it at the time, made Clint's worst fear a reality. Or maybe he _had_ realized it…maybe that had been the whole point.

A hand tightened suddenly around his and he looked down.

His fingers were curled around the black blanket that served as their bedspread, his knuckles were white. Natasha's hand over his actually looked tan in comparison.

"You keep doing that."

He blinked, for some reason unable to look away from their hands even as he forced his fingers to unclench.

"Doing what?" he asked.

"Zoning out. I called your name twice."

He swallowed and lifted his gaze. Time for a re-direct.

"I'm just tired. And as for the food? When Loki's gone, I'm sure I'll feel up to eating everything in the pizza joint downstairs. Just need that weight lifted, you know?"

She nodded.

"Well, then let's get the show on the road."

He nodded in return and they both reached for their jackets.

* * *

End of Chapter 11

awww so much clintasha! and you guys didn't think you'd get any this story ;) but the moment of truth, literally, is coming for Natasha. Tomorrow that hammer is gonna fall and Clint...well...you'll just have to wait and see

tune in tomorrow for the next installment. Until then, drop a line and have a preview!

* * *

_"It's not true. It can't be." He growled out the denial. "Phil's not dead."_

_He just wasn't – plain and simple._

_"Fury was there," she explained quietly. "He was with him in the end."_

_"Then Fury's full of shit," Clint spat. "He's not dead, Natasha. I would know if he was."_


	12. Whatever Weather, Cold or Warm

_Disclaimer: I do not own "The Avengers" or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works. I do not claim any of the directly quoted lines from "The Avengers" as my own, they belong to Marvel and the writers._ _The cover art came from a google search with the original source being pinterest where it was credited to Anthony Genuardi._

 _Author's Note: While I embrace_ **_constructive_ ** _criticism, remember this old saying if you choose to leave a review "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all"_

* * *

_Alrighty, thanks to all who reviewed Chapter 11:_ **Literally, HamHam2931, Isi7140, RandominatorOwl**

_As usual, thank you to my wonderful betas_ **Kylen** _and_ **JRBarton _._** _Who knows where i'd be without them :)_

 

_Now, on we go!_

* * *

_Last time in The Untold Stories:_

_"I'm just tired. And as for the food? When Loki's gone, I'm sure I'll feel up to eating everything in the pizza joint downstairs. Just need that weight lifted, you know?"_

_She nodded._

_"Well, then let's get the show on the road."_

_He nodded in return and they both reached for their jackets._

* * *

_War: first, one hopes to win; then one expects the enemy to lose; then, one is satisfied that he too is suffering; in the end, one is surprised that everyone has lost._  
**_Karl Kraus_ **

* * *

_April 13, 2016_  
2:57 pm  
Bethesda Terrace, Central Park, NY

* * *

Natasha pulled to a stop at Bethesda Terrace and shifted the car into park, killing the ignition. Clint was already looking out the window, eyes locked on Loki where he stood, bound and gagged, next to Thor and surrounded by agents.

He felt something like hate rise in him then. It was unfamiliar. He'd only ever hated one other man.

"Hey," Natasha called his attention back to her, "don't give him power over you, okay? It's over. He lost."

Clint didn't answer, reached instead for a pair of black sunglasses that had been left on the dash at some point. He slid them over his face, hiding his gaze. He always liked sunglasses, liked that it kept the true direction of his gaze a mystery. On this particular day it would also do a good job of hiding from everyone else, especially Loki, just how truly exhausted he was.

He wouldn't let the bastard know how hard his hits had landed. In fact, he intended to do his level best to appear as if not a damn thing was wrong. As if he didn't bear a single bruise, cut or scrape. As if, between his knee and his ankle, his left leg wasn't all screwed to hell right now. As if his back didn't ache and his neck wasn't sore. As if his head didn't feel like Loki had stuck the business end of an electric hand mixer into his brain and turned it on.

All the world would see he was just _fine_.

"Ready?" Natasha asked, as if she sensed his iron-clad resolve settling in.

He took an extra moment to square his shoulders and roll his neck. He could do this. He could be fine. He glanced at her and nodded.

Her gaze was worried – though that had been a constant thing since he woke up on the carrier – but she quirked her lips hopefully.

"Yeah?" she sought confirmation.

He nodded again.

"Yeah," he assured.

"Then let's send the bastard home."

* * *

Natasha and Clint exited the SHIELD company car in near synchronization. She couldn't help but look at him over the hood and check to make sure he hadn't face planted. He hadn't. In fact, he had managed to straighten to his full height and looked for all the world like he didn't have a care.

But she also saw the way his head angled towards Loki almost immediately. He didn't completely turn his head in that direction, but she was willing to bet his hidden eyes were locked on the god like he was a target down range.

"Hey," she called quietly.

He looked over the car hood towards her immediately.

"You good?"

"If you're asking if I'm contemplating all the ways I could try and kill him in the next 60 seconds, then yes, I am. If you're also asking if I _will_ , no, I won't." He shut his car door and continued in a low mutter, "not like I'd be able to get past his blonde body guard anyway."

Natasha rolled her eyes and watched Banner approach them from where he'd been standing over near the perimeter of SHIELD agents that were stationed around them.

"Can I, uh, stash this in your car? Don't really want to carry it around and don't want to just leave it on the sidewalk because, well, this _is_ New York."

Clint just stared at him for a moment and then silently reached for the back door, pulling it open and waving his hand to urge Banner along. The doctor nodded his thanks and tossed his bag in. Just as Clint shut the door, the rumble of an old motorcycle alerted them to Rogers' arrival. He parked his bike behind their car and gave them all a nod of greeting.

While Natasha rounded the front of the car, Rogers moved towards Clint. He held out his hand and offered her partner a kind smile.

"We never officially met. Steve Rogers."

Clint returned the handshake immediately, giving the Captain a nod of greeting.

"Barton."

Steve withdrew his hand and tossed a smile of greeting at Natasha. She quirked her lips in return and stayed close at Clint's shoulder. The four of them glanced at where Thor was standing with Loki, a small team of agents surrounding them.

"I gotta say, the sooner that guy's gone, the better I'll feel," Banner stated suddenly. "The other guy just can't seem to completely settle while he's still in our realm."

Rogers glanced at his watch.

"As soon as Stark gets here, we can get on with it. I'll feel better when Loki is gone, too."

Natasha glanced at Clint, but he was holding himself perfectly still, his laser-like focus pinned on Loki.

She nudged him and he nearly flinched.

He kept doing that. Completely zoning out. It wasn't like him, not even a little. Clint was excellent at keeping stock of his surroundings. He was always aware of everything going on around him. For him to get tunnel vision like that was unheard of.

She wondered again just _what_ Loki had done to him and how much of it Clint had been aware of at the time. Whether he remembered it outright or not right now, he wasn't as unaffected as he was trying to pretend to be.

She didn't get a chance to say anything, though, because the loud roar of an engine drew all of their attention to Stark's arrival. Despite the flashiness of his car choice, he seemed to be in a somber mood as he climbed out, silver case in hand.

"Let's go," Steve decided, starting forward.

Thor, too, had apparently decided now was the time because he led Loki away from the agents and out into the open. Natasha waited for Clint to move before following him. He peeled to the left a little, flanking Thor and Loki. It was a tactical move that she wasn't even sure he'd done consciously.

She wished she was impressed by the fact that Clint wasn't even limping – he didn't appear to favor his left leg at all – but she wasn't. He could deny and ignore pain with the best of them if he wanted to. She'd see him get shot and keep going without missing a step.

Showing pain was a weakness to him. And he refused to be weak.

While Steve watched Selvig and Banner get the tesseract into a new container, Natasha watched Clint. Without giving her warning, he strode right up to Loki and leaned in, whispering something and then backing away. He went almost stock still then, silently glaring.

* * *

Loki glared right back.

Clint leaned in close to Loki and set his voice at a low growl.

"You _lose._ She's still standing and so am I. You didn't break me. You didn't even come close. I hope you rot in hell, you son of a bitch."

Then he backed away, glaring through his sunglasses. Maybe it was a little bit of a lie. He did feel broken, but not completely. He still had Natasha. He still had Phil. He would find a way to put back together the broken pieces. He'd do it in spite of Loki and in spite of how hard the god had worked to rip him apart.

He wouldn't break.

He would send Loki packing believing that he'd failed, that his promise to leave Clint shattered was the only thing that ended up broken. Clint was already able to look at Natasha without seeing what he'd almost done. He could touch her without those dark thoughts resurfacing.

Natasha was right. Loki had lost.

It was over.

He cut his gaze over when he sensed her move next to him. She twisted so that her mouth was near his ear and spoke lowly.

"Grapevine says Hulk tossed him around like a rag doll during the fight. I don't know about you, but I'd _pay_ to see that security footage."

The visual alone was enough to make him smile.

A moment later, Loki's gaze cut away from his and that felt like a different kind of victory. He smiled a little wider. He saw Thor approach Loki with the tesseract, holding a handle out for the other god to grab.

Instinctively, Clint shifted, moving away from Natasha but closing off the only real gap in their ranks. Just in case. He didn't want Loki getting any funny ideas.

Then, less than a minute later…it was over. They were gone. Clint found himself blinking up at the sky, looking for any last trace of them, but even his keen eyes couldn't track them where they'd gone.

Natasha's hand found his arm, drawing his gaze back down to earth.

She smiled.

"Wanna get out of here?"

He quirked his lips. He already felt lighter. With Loki gone, it was like some weight had been lifted from his soul.

"Hell yes."

Together they headed back to their car. They were waylaid by Stark, who extended a hand.

"That bow of yours, fancy shit," the billionaire stated casually as he shook Clint's hand. "I've got some ideas for enhancements if you're interested."

Clint wondered if Stark had ever met a weapon he didn't have 'ideas for enhancements' about.

"I might take you up on that." SHIELD techs never let him enact any of his more _creative_ arrow ideas. Maybe Stark would be more open to some free thinking on the subject.

"Agent Romanoff," Stark nodded at Natasha, though there was an air of playful suspicion in his gaze, "or whoever you are today. Always a terror seeing you."

Natasha gave him a tight-lipped, slightly murderous smile that had Stark's gaze narrowing.

"Well, I'm off then." He turned away without so much as a backward glance at them. "Bruce! What do you say you come check out my lab? My toys are way more fun than SHIELD's and twice as expensive."

Natasha shot Clint a grin as they continued on their way.

"I infiltrate his organization and spy on him _once_ and he can't let it go."

Clint chuckled, rounding the car and habitually opening the driver's door as Natasha retrieved Banner's bag for him. He exchanged nods with the Captain and started to lower himself in.

"Oh no," Natasha was suddenly at his side, "don't even think about it. I'm glad you're feeling better but how about you let the one that's slept in the last three days do the driving?"

Clint didn't bother arguing, but did turn to face her with a teasing grin.

"You trying to whisk me off to some secluded spot where you can have your way with me?"

Her mouth slid into a seductive grin and she leaned into his personal space.

"The only place I'm whisking you is back to Brooklyn and into a bed."

He grinned wider.

"Not as kinky as I was hoping for, but I'll take it."

She laughed.

"God, you _must_ be feeling better – or the exhaustion is making you _loopy_. Get in the car." She gave him a gentle shove to get him moving.

Clint just smiled and obeyed.

* * *

Natasha made quick work of the drive back to Brooklyn. She wasn't surprised in the least when Clint's head had tilted against the window before they even made it to the bridge. When she finally parked the car back in the garage that stood a block from their safe house, she drew in a deep breath and turned to watch him.

Loki leaving had lifted a weight, that was for damn sure. Maybe some part of him had need the god gone to truly believe he was _free_ of him. Whatever it was, he'd been smiling easier and spouting innuendo like he hadn't even missed a beat.

She just wished it was going to last. She held no illusions. She knew that when he found out that not only was Phil dead, but she had _lied_ to him about it – had robbed him of a chance at vengeance – he was going to be beyond angry with her. He'd only ever been _truly_ angry at her once. The whole mess before her ill-fated Germany mission had left him pissed enough to walk away from her.

That had also been a lie – one of omission. It had been something kept from him because at the time it had seemed too personal. It had been part of her past. It hadn't concerned him.

She'd been wrong. There wasn't her past and then Clint anymore – there was just Clint. He was part of _every_ piece of her life now. She'd promised him, after Germany and after they'd sorted out the whole mess with Alexi, that there would be no more lies.

Now she'd betrayed that and she wasn't sure she was ready for the fallout.

There was no escaping it now, though, he needed to know. He _had_ to know.

She didn't reach out to wake him, instead opened her car door and stepped out. The sound of her door shutting roused him. By the time she'd made it around to the passenger side, he was pushing his door open.

The grogginess had settled back in and he wavered heavily once he was upright.

"Not much further, мой сокол." She pulled his arm over her shoulder and let him lean against her as they walked. _(my hawk.)_

It was a testament to his exhaustion that he just silently complied, letting her pull him along without protest. His limp was back, more pronounced than it had been, and his right hand had strayed to press against his right side. As hard as it was to see him in obvious pain, part of her was relieved that he wasn't trying to hide it from her.

Several minutes later, as they stood at the bottom of the first flight of stairs, he sighed deeply.

"Next safe house…no stairs. Not one. I don't ever want to go up another goddamned stair after this."

"No argument here." She waited until he moved before starting forward herself.

This trip up the six flights was somehow easier, for Clint at least. Whatever comfort he'd found in Loki leaving seemed to give him at least marginal energy to avoid outright collapse.

Natasha, on the other hand, found each step harder than the last. The closer they got, the closer _she_ got to having to tell him the truth. And more than anything, she didn't want to.

Loki was gone. It was supposed to be over. But it wasn't.

Not even close. As much as she wanted to just let him sleep, to put off the truth, she knew that the longer she waited, the worse it would be. She'd already waited too long – maybe _too_ long for him to forgive her for it.

The lie had been hard. The truth would be worse.

* * *

Clint pulled away from her once they were inside the apartment again, letting her turn to reengage the locks. He headed straight for the bed. It looked more comfortable than any bed he'd ever seen.

"I could sleep for a week." Maybe he _would_ , if they could put off the debrief that was surely headed his way and the psych eval that would get shoved on him.

 _God_ , he was going to have to navigate that like a minefield.

"I think I could actually eat something now too. I'm hungry...hell, I'm starving." He sank down on to the bed and toed off his boots – left loose on purpose so he wouldn't have to bend to get them off.

He looked up to see Natasha was still facing the door, though he'd heard her key in the code already.

"Hey, you okay?" he asked in concern. He almost levered himself up off the bed to go to her. Something was wrong, he could sense it now. It was practically bleeding into the air around her. He started to push himself up in earnest now, worried that maybe one of her broken ribs had shifted, or that the head wound had been more serious than she'd let on.

She turned then and made quick strides towards him, using a gentle hand to keep him from rising. Then she went to her knees in front of him, but didn't meet his eyes.

"Nat?"

She looked up at him and he drew back. He could see it in her eyes. It wasn't an injury, it was something else, something worse.

"Clint…" she started softly, "there's something I have to tell you."

He frowned at the unusual waver in her voice.

"Tasha?" he reached for her hands, closing them in his own. "What is it?"

She licked her lips and drew in a breath.

"It's Phil..." she admitted, gaze locked on his.

Clint tilted his head, the beginnings of panic starting to creep up in his gut. He refused to acknowledge it, pushed it away instead.

"What about him?" he asked, grasping at ignorance, refusing to make any mental leaps.

But he knew. He could see the answer in her eyes.

He let go of her hands and pulled his own back. She let hers fall to rest on his knees.

"Loki…" she explained, her expression slowly – piece by piece – started to crumble. "Loki killed him during the attack on the carrier."

Clint stared at her, unable to process what she'd just told him.

"Loki? What…?"

He shook his head and stood abruptly, shoving past her and pacing away. He rounded on her, pitching his voice low to reflect the anger he felt boiling up inside him.

"I _asked_ you, point blank, if he was okay and you said he was."

"I know," she stood and moved towards him, but she stopped just within arm's reach when she caught the fierce glare he sent her way. "We needed you. We needed you focused and ready to go to war."

He shook his head again, looking away from her, over to the doors that would lead him to the roof. Phil couldn't just be gone. He couldn't just be _dead_.

It didn't feel right. It didn't feel true. He'd know if it was. He was sure he would.

He shook his head again, more sharply this time and turned his fiery glare back on her. She was still hovering a foot and a half away, eyes full of apology and sadness of her own.

"It's not true. It can't be." He growled out the denial. "Phil's not dead."

He just _wasn't_ – plain and simple.

"Fury was there," she explained quietly. "He was with him in the end."

"Then Fury's full of shit," Clint spat. "He's _not_ dead, Natasha. I would know if he was."

"Clint."

"No," he denied sharply, moving towards the balcony doors. "I don't know why you're lying to me, but you _are."_

"I'm not." She followed him and pushed the doors closed as he tried to pull them open. "I'm not lying, Clint." He tried the doors again and she pressed her body against them to keep him from escaping. " _Look_ at me!" she demanded. "Look me in the eyes and tell me if I'm lying."

He did, he looked her right in the eyes. He saw the same thing he'd seen the moment she started this whole conversation. She believed, with everything she had, that Phil was dead.

He shook his head, more frantically this time.

He wrapped his hands around her shoulders and forcefully moved her away from the doors. The pang he felt when she winced at the manhandling was swiftly pushed aside in favor of taking his escape. He scaled the ladder to the roof in record time, stumbling away from the ledge and going to one knee when his left leg finally decided it'd had enough.

His already abused knee cracking into the hard top of the roof had him pitching forward, catching himself with his hands before he could face plant. But then he just allowed his descent to continue until his forehead pressed into the concrete of the rooftop.

Phil was dead.

He dug his hands into his hair.

Phil was _dead._

He fisted his hands, clenching his eyes closed.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to allow some sort of _release_ for the overwhelming emotions boiling inside him. But he didn't, _couldn't_. Letting it out, acknowledging the _pain_ and the _anger_ …it meant accepting it.

It meant accepting that Phil was actually gone, was actually dead.

He couldn't do that. _Wouldn't_.

So instead he dug his fingers harder into his scalp and pressed his forehead more firmly against the rooftop.

And he controlled it, he forced the emotion down. He buried it deep, locked it up and turned his back on it.

After that…all he felt was numb. And he welcomed it.

He started to shift, but then aborted the movement.

He didn't even know if he had it in him to stand.

He heard her on the ladder, felt her gaze as she crested the ledge and moved out onto the roof.

He didn't move.

She stopped a couple of feet away, but didn't speak. She was just there, waiting.

Slowly, he pushed himself up and shifted until he was on his butt, legs bent before him and elbows braced on his knees. He threaded his fingers into his hair and stared across the rooftop, refusing to meet her gaze.

Slowly, she crouched into his line of sight, still quiet, still waiting.

"You lied to me." His voice was low and angry – he knew that – but he couldn't help it. As much as he had buried any acknowledgement and reaction to what she'd said about Phil, he _hadn't_ forgotten the lie.

For two people who lied for a living, the act, ironically, wasn't tolerated between them. It hadn't been for a long time.

He watched her flinch like he'd put an arrow in her. The last time she'd lied to him about something this serious, they'd called it quits on whatever this was between them. They'd walked away from each other and then he'd nearly lost her in Germany. He'd promised himself then that he'd never walk away from her again, no matter what. And he wouldn't.

But goddamn, it fucking _hurt_.

"You _lied_ to me," he accused again, voice as sharp as a blade.

"I did," she admitted quietly, but firmly. That was just like her. She was never afraid to own her imperfections. "Because I knew what you'd do. And we needed you focused."

That hurt too. Manipulation was a trick of her trade. She used it on marks, on the enemy. For some reason, he'd never thought she'd use it on him.

"So you used me…manipulated me," he said darkly. He heard her draw in a steadying breath.

"Yes, I did."

There she went again. She would own it. She wouldn't try to pass the blame off or excuse it away.

That was Natasha.

"But it was about more than that," she went on. "When you woke up…when you were having those flashes of what Loki had tried to make you do, I could see that you were on some invisible ledge. I knew I couldn't tell you then. I knew it would've pushed you over."

His jaw clenched. She wasn't wrong. Loki had shoved and pushed and nudged him until he was standing on the edge of an abyss with the ground crumbling beneath his feet.

If she had told him then, when Loki was still _here_ – still shoving, pushing, and nudging him – he'd have gone over.

But when Loki left…he felt like he'd been able to shift back to stable ground.

It had been the tactical call, maybe even the right one.

But it still felt like a betrayal.

"So you waited for Loki to leave."

She nodded.

For several long, quiet moments he just sat there, head in his hands and eyes pinned on some spot on the concrete. He should be furious with her. He should be pushing her away and telling her to get the hell away from him.

But he couldn't.

Because deep down, a quiet voice was reminding him that she cared about him. It was telling him that if he would stop and _look_ , he'd see that lying to him had gutted her. That having to tell him the _truth_ was destroying her.

And that same voice was whispering that _he_ was lying too. And unlike Natasha, he wasn't coming clean. He wasn't owning it.

He was a lot of things, but a hypocrite wasn't one of them. So he drew in a breath and met her gaze.

"I get why you lied."

She wasn't expecting the absolution. He could tell by her stunned blink.

"If you'd have told me, I'd have killed him…or tried to."

He still had half a mind to find a way to Asgard and put the bastard down for good.

But Thor had taken the only key that opened that particular doorway. Revenge wasn't an option and maybe that was a good thing. If Loki was here…Clint didn't know if he'd have the strength to stop himself from trying to kill him. Hell, he wished with more intensity than was healthy that he'd put an arrow in the son of a bitch when he had the chance back in Stark Tower.

But he'd promised Phil, two years ago, that if the worst ever happened, he wouldn't go backwards. He wouldn't embrace the darkness, no matter how much he wanted to.

And Clint didn't break his promises.

So he did his best to let go of the vengeful thoughts, but found it harder than he'd expected.

Not long ago, Clint had looked Loki in the eye and told him he'd lost.

It had been a lie.

Loki hadn't lost.

He'd won. Clint just hadn't known it yet. He'd done exactly what he'd told Clint he would do – he'd broken him. He'd distracted him so completely with the bloodlust towards Natasha that he hadn't even seen it coming. Looking back, it had probably been his plan all along.

He knew he should be letting himself feel something. He should be letting emotions overwhelm him. He should be screaming and crying and _reacting_. But he'd buried all of that. He wasn't going to let himself feel it. If he opened that door, he didn't know if he'd ever be able to shut it.

So instead, he just embraced the numbness. And he _did_ feel numb – beautifully, blissfully numb. Like the world was moving around him but he was stuck, frozen, unable to interact.

Maybe that was good. Maybe numb was better.

"Clint?"

He blinked, bringing her face back into focus. Worry clouded her gaze and she'd come a few inches closer. He didn't even have it in him to be mad at her anymore.

"Why don't we go back inside? You need sleep."

Clint just stared at her for a moment. Sleep? Yeah, his body demanded it at the moment, yearned for it. So he moved.

Slowly at first, then faster. He made it to his feet and didn't even sway, though the world did tilt around him. She led the way back to the ladder and went down first, more than likely to be there to catch him if consciousness fled.

But he descended after her without incident.

No, it wasn't until he walked ahead of her back into the apartment that the world flickered. It was a strange, but not entirely unfamiliar, sensation. Like someone had flipped a switch on his vision, turning it off and then back on in rapid succession.

He knew he should call out to her, warn her that his body had finally given up and called it quits. He'd run face first into the proverbial wall _hours_ ago and had climbed over it.

He opened his mouth, but then the room flickered again. His hand reached blindly for _something_ even as the switch flipped off once again.

It didn't flip back on.

He didn't even feel his body hit the floor.

* * *

Natasha breathed a sigh of relief when Clint's feet hit the balcony.

She was worried.

She'd gone up to the roof expecting fury and had been met with understanding instead. She'd expected some broken combination of sadness, pain, and anger.

But instead he didn't seem to be feeling much at all. He almost seemed…numb.

It wasn't healthy, but maybe it was best. Maybe it was the only way he could cope right now.

He headed inside ahead of her and she followed slowly, frowning when he paused briefly just after crossing the threshold. She opened her mouth to ask him what was wrong, but then everything happened too quickly.

His hand drifted out and then he just went down, dropped like a puppet whose strings had been cut. The impact was jarring to witness, but he didn't make a sound. More than likely, he was already unconscious. She went to her knees next to him, pulling him onto his back and reaching for the pulse point on his neck.

She found it easily, strong and true, if not a little fast.

She let out a relieved breath and dropped her head down to rest on his chest. She felt it building then, the weight of everything that had happened in the last few days.

Clint going missing. The frantic search that yielded no results. Capturing Loki. The interrogation. The attack on the carrier. Running from the Hulk. Fighting Clint. Losing Phil and Todd. Watching Clint fight his way through withdrawal symptoms. Lying to him about Phil when he woke up. The battle in the streets. Finally winning.

Only it didn't feel much like winning right now. Not with Clint unconscious on the ground and with so many people dead – people that were important to them.

Natasha shifted, carefully lifting his head into her lap. She'd have to haul him over to the bed soon, but right now she didn't even know if she could make herself stand back up. So instead, she just curled her body protectively over him, pressing her forehead against his.

Telling him had been worse than she'd imagined. She'd seen, as her words sunk in, his heart break in his eyes. Then the wild, stubborn denial had come as he clung to something, _anything_ , to make the hurt less. But that had been better than the numbness that had seemed to come over him since, almost like he was checking out, separating himself from the reality he found himself in.

Loki's final blow had been the most devastating and with it, he'd done what she hadn't believed possible.

He'd broken Clint Barton.

In a way, she'd helped, by lying, by manipulating him to fight in the battle, by keeping him from a chance at revenge…and then by being the one that told him the truth.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered softly. Sorry for the lies. Sorry for the truth. She felt hot tears burn her eyes so she squeezed her lids closed to trap them. "I'm so, so sorry, мой сокол."

She was the Black Widow. She was a stone cold killer, unshakeable and strong.

But right now, she didn't feel like any of those things. She felt lost. She felt broken.

She felt like even though they'd won, they'd _lost_. They'd paid for their victory in blood and she was terrified the cost had been too high for her hawk _or her_ to handle.

She curled tighter around Clint, clenching one hand around the collar of his jacket, and carefully cradling his head with the other.

When the first tear broke free, she couldn't do anything but suck in a fractured breath. She let it out just as brokenly, feeling another tear slid down her nose, rolling onto Clint's temple and sliding into his hair.

She growled in frustration, willing the overwhelming emotion away.

She wouldn't break. She couldn't. Clint would need her to be strong.

So she straightened, wiping at her eyes and taking a deep, composed breath.

_You are control. You are discipline. You are precision._

The Red Room mantra rolled through her mind without warning, making her hand on Clint's jacket tighten. Ever since her run in with the rogue Red Room instructor in Germany, those old, nearly forgotten lessons had been simmering closer to the surface.

What had Clint said to her after she'd recovered from that and she'd finally told him everything? He'd held her, he'd kissed her gently and he'd slowly and passionately made her forget the Red Room even existed. And afterward, he'd whispered softly in her ear,

" _You are_ _ **in**_ _control. You are strong. You are beautiful. And you are_ _ **everything**_ _to me."_

She let out a slow sigh and looked down at Clint, gently tracing her fingers through the hair of his temple.

He had accepted her, and all the darkness that went with her, without question. He'd loved her in a way that she hadn't even known was possible. And even though she returned those feelings, with absolutely everything she had, she hadn't told him. She'd thought her actions were enough. It wasn't until Alexi had nearly destroyed everything that she'd finally told him.

When Alexi had looked at her and told her to choose, she hadn't even hesitated.

But the doubt Alexi had planted in Clint's heart had grown strong and she'd been too caught up in the demons of her past to notice.

But what Alexi hadn't understood, what she'd done everything in her power to convince Clint of, was that there hadn't _been_ a choice. There had only been Clint. There would only ever be Clint.

She leaned closer, putting her lips right next to his ear.

"You are everything to me, мой сокол."

Then she drew in a fortifying breath and hooked her hands under his arms, forcing her tired legs under her. She'd had to carry Clint, actually _carry_ him, exactly _once_ in their long history together. She'd only succeeded because of adrenaline and desperation. She was strong, but he was nothing but solidly built, lithe muscle.

In short, _he was heavy._

When he was at least semi-conscious, he was pretty good about keeping his feet under him if she took the brunt of his weight through an arm over her shoulders. But when he was deadweight, like now, dragging became the name of the game.

Dragging was easier than carrying, but was hell on the back.

She back pedaled towards the bed, pulling him after her and climbed backwards onto the mattress. She had to heave a little to get the bulk of his body up onto the bed with her, but she managed. Once she had him all the way onto the mattress, she rolled him to his side, working his layered hoodie and leather jacket from his shoulders.

That done, she quickly stripped him of his pants and manhandled him under the blankets. She sat back on her heels with a sigh, blowing a stray strand of hair out of her face.

Exhaustion pulled at her and she slowly unzipped her boots and kicked them carelessly to the floor. Then she dropped her own jacket into a heap next to them. Her own black pants followed and then she was snuggling down into the blankets next to him.

Her phone suddenly sounding off from the fresh pile of clothes had her sighing. The ringtone – Johnny Rivers' "Secret Agent Man" – had been downloaded by Clint and she'd found it amusing enough not to change it.

It was always good to know when it was Fury who was calling.

She eased over the edge of the bed, feeling for the device and wincing as her ribs ground together.

Finally, she found it and laid back even as she answered.

"This is Romanoff."

" _You two squared away?"_

"Well, Clint's unconscious, does that count?"

Fury sighed over the line. He sounded tired. She knew _she_ did too.

" _Do you need medical?"_

She rolled her head over to study Clint's profile. His breathing was steady, skin only a little pale.

"Nothing physically that I couldn't handle." God, she hoped she hadn't missed anything.

" _And the_ _ **non**_ _-physical?"_

Natasha felt her throat tighten.

"Why, Director, is that concern I hear?"

He didn't sound as amused as he normally did when teased in such a way.

" _I take the evasion to mean you've told him."_

She swallowed and blinked away the moisture building in her eyes.

"Yes."

Fury sighed again.

" _I need him in for a preliminary debrief as soon as he's conscious. Call ahead and I'll have a jet sent to pick you up."_

"Can't it wait?" she asked, her tone sharper than she'd intended.

" _No,"_ he answered simply, sharply.

"I'm sitting in and no contact with the Council." She really wasn't in a position to be negotiating. Fury was her boss. But she wasn't leaving Clint to handle this, _any of this_ , alone.

She heard him draw in a slightly irritated breath.

" _Romanoff, he played for the enemy team. Whether it was his choice or not, answers are being demanded. I'll do what I can, but you and I_ _ **both**_ _know that the Council won't back down until they can judge his loyalty for themselves."_

She bit her lip, closing her eyes against her own frustration. Clint was perhaps the most loyal man she'd ever met. He'd disobeyed SHIELD exactly once in his tenure with them, to save _her_. That they questioned him at every turn, looked for any excuse to discredit and discipline him…it made her question sometimes just who exactly they were working for.

"He's not ready." Not to face the Council, not even close. She wasn't even sure he'd have it in him to talk to Fury.

" _Like I said, I'll do what I can. Best case, I can delay his meeting with them. Give him time to regroup."_

She nodded even though he couldn't see her and went on when she didn't reply.

" _Romanoff…"_ it wasn't like Fury to hesitate and it gave away the true weight this whole situation was putting on him, _"keep him in once piece."_

Why didn't he just ask for the impossible?

"I'll try, but…"

" _I know."_ He sounded like he _did_. Then his voice strengthened. _"See you soon."_

She tossed the phone back to the floor even as the call disconnected.

Then she did the only thing she could. She curled her body around Clint's and closed her eyes.

To her surprise, sleep came quickly.

* * *

_End of Chapter 12_

_So...Clint is dealing with this...pretty unhealthily. But you can see how six months later, in Vantage Point, he's still...not coping. When you think about it, he's dealing with this in the same way he deals with physical injuries. He ignores it. He powers through. He does whatever he has to in order to SURVIVE._

_So on that depressing note, we'll meet back tomorrow and continue on._

_Same time, same place! Drop me a line if you'd be so kind and to prepare you for tomorrow...have a preview_

* * *

_He wasn't sure what he expected, maybe for all the emotion Barton tended to keep locked down to finally break free. Maybe he expected grief to show or anger. He **hadn't** expected **this** , for Barton to have just withdrawn into himself._

_Though it fit, he supposed. It was what he'd been like when Phil recruited him. Only now, Phil wasn't here to break through that steel-reinforced shell._

_Nick had an idea of what to do about that, though. There was no one man that could replace Phil Coulson, but a team of men? Maybe they could._


	13. And I Just Can't Keep Living This Way

_Disclaimer: I do not own "The Avengers" or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works. I do not claim any of the directly quoted lines from "The Avengers" as my own, they belong to Marvel and the writers._ _The cover art came from a google search with the original source being pinterest where it was credited to Anthony Genuardi._

 _Author's Note: While I embrace_ **_constructive_ ** _criticism, remember this old saying if you choose to leave a review "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all"_

* * *

 _Alrighty, thanks to all who reviewed Chapter 12:_ **Firali, Isi7140, loony_lovegood, RoS13, and RandominatorOwl**

 _As usual, thank you to my wonderful betas_ **Kylen** _and_ **JRBarton _._** _Who knows where i'd be without them :)_

  _Now, on we go!_

* * *

_Last time in The Untold Stories:_

_Then she did the only thing she could. She curled her body around Clint's and closed her eyes._

_To her surprise, sleep came quickly._

* * *

_It is foolish and wrong to mourn the men who died. Rather, we should thank God that such men lived.  
**George S. Patton Jr.**_

* * *

_April 14, 2012_  
_12:02 p.m.  
_ _Undisclosed safe house in Brooklyn_

* * *

Clint woke abruptly, the vestiges of some dream he couldn't remember receding like the tide.

A sound off to his right had him instinctively reaching for the weapon he usually kept hidden under his pillow. His hand met nothing but empty sheet.

Adrenaline flooded his system, banishing the last remnants of sleep and sending energy surging through his body. He twisted up in the bed, looking towards the sound he'd heard.

A partially closed bathroom door.

He knew that door.

He glanced around sharply.

He knew this room.

It came back then, every horrible detail of the last few days.

He was in Brooklyn, his and Natasha's safe house. They'd come here after watching Loki leave. He'd been exhausted, operating on nothing but stubbornness and force of will. He'd been ready to sleep for a week, then she'd told him…

 _Phil_.

He sat up slowly, putting his feet on the floor and bracing his elbows on his knees. He dug his fingers into his hair and let his hands hold his head up.

He heard the bathroom door shift and sensed her hesitate at seeing him conscious, but then she was moving towards him.

"How are you feeling?"

He scrubbed his hands down over his face and sighed.

How was he feeling? Surprised that other than some vague memories of terror, he didn't really remember having any nightmares – or at least didn't remember waking from one.

Beyond that…he didn't want to think about it, definitely didn't want to talk about it.

"What day is it?" he asked instead.

"Saturday."

He frowned. Last he remembered it was midafternoon on Friday.

"What _time_ is it?"

"Just after noon."

He huffed in something like shock. He'd slept over 19 hours…or had been unconscious for that amount of time. Either way you looked at it, his body had obviously called a time out without consulting him.

The bed dipped as she sat next to him.

"Feel up to eating?"

He needed to, he knew he did. His stomach felt hollow and achy. His body was telling him clearly that he need to provide it with fuel. But he couldn't find it in himself to muster any enthusiasm for the process.

So he shrugged noncommittally.

She, apparently, took that as a 'yes' because she stood and headed to the kitchen. He spent the minutes she was gone plotting his trek to the bathroom. His left leg from knee to ankle just kind of radiated pain, so he resigned himself to limping it.

He looked down at the offending joints and was vaguely surprised to see them both wrapped in Ace bandages. Natasha had been busy.

Levering himself off the bed was embarrassingly difficult. Every bruise battled to make itself known, every cut and scrape warred for attention. His ribs screamed in protest and his head swam as soon as he was vertical.

But stubborn refusal to pass out _again_ kept him conscious and a hand on the bedside table kept him from going to the ground. Once he was reasonably certain consciousness was firmly in his grasp, he pushed off the bedside table and began his pathetic limping hobble towards the bathroom. Forcing himself to walk smoothly yesterday hadn't done him any favors. There was a reason you were supposed to favor injured joints.

Once he was in the bathroom and had the counter to lean on, movement became easier. Once he'd relieved himself, washed his hands and face and brushed too many hours' worth of grime from his teeth, he felt passably human again.

Natasha was putting a plate of food on his bedside table when he re-emerged.

"I went to the corner store this morning to get something other than the emergency rations and canned goods we keep here. So lucky you, you get real food." She also brandished a blue Gatorade with flourish and set it next to the plate.

The sandwich was compiled of everything he loved about sandwiches, loads of meat and several different types of cheese. She'd added her own touch by trying to sneak some lettuce and, if his eyesight served, a tomato in there too.

He hobbled back to the bed and sat, reaching for the food.

"Wait."

He paused, hand outstretched.

"Sit back, let me get some more ice on that ankle and knee."

Clint was still puzzling over the 'more' part while she headed back to the kitchen and had only just started to shift to sit against the headboard when she returned.

She carefully arranged the reusable ice packs on his injured joints and then sat at his hip, watching him take a bite of his sandwich.

That was when he remembered he was down a molar – _again_.

"You look like shit." Insulting from anyone else, the way Natasha said it was endearing. Just the right amount of caring and worry mixed in with the no-nonsense hard-ass he adored.

"Well, I feel worse," he admitted around a bite of sandwich. Nineteen-plus hours of sleep hadn't done much of anything but allow him to be more cognizant of just how much abuse his body and mind had taken. Everything ached and his head felt like it'd gotten slammed in a car door.

Natasha just gave him a sympathetic grimace and looked down at her phone when it buzzed in her hand.

She scowled slightly at the screen and then clicked it off, looking back up to meet his gaze again. He arched an eyebrow in question.

"What?" she asked blankly.

"Debrief?" he asked knowingly. He was amazed he'd gotten away with being out of contact this long.

She nodded.

"Fury wanted us to come in as soon as you were conscious," she explained, but then went on, "I'm seriously considering telling him you're still out of it and buying us a few more hours."

Clint shook his head.

"I want to put this nightmare to bed and be _done_ with it."

He also wanted to keep busy. He'd do whatever he could to make clinging to the numbness easier.

"Fine." She sighed and unlocked her phone screen again. "But last I checked you'd wanted to _avoid_ talking about what happened with Loki."

She had a point, but that had been before. Before he knew about… He sighed. Just _before_.

Now he welcomed the distraction of thinking about those two days of hell. But thinking about it, did _not_ mean talking about it. He was going to do his level best to convince Fury and everyone else that he didn't remember a damn thing that happened. Maybe he could even avoid the shrinks that way.

"It's not like I remember anything anyway," he perpetuated the lie.

"That must be driving you crazy," she commented as she typed on her phone. She looked up as she hit 'send.' "Not being able to remember any of it."

He nodded because it was what she'd expect.

"But like you said," she went on, "maybe it's for the best."

He nodded again, firmly shoving away the tendril of guilt worming its way up in his gut. The lie was better than the truth. It was better than her worrying even more.

"Finish up," she nodded at his sandwich, "Fury's sending a jet. We need to drive out to the RV."

He dutifully raised his food to his mouth and took a bite, chewing mechanically. He tried to pretend it wasn't tasteless in his mouth and that he wasn't fighting the urge to throw it all back up.

* * *

 _April 14, 2012_  
_1:45 p.m.  
_ _Fury's office, SHIELD helicarrier_

* * *

"Nothing?" Fury asked incredulously.

He watched Barton blink slowly at him across the desk and then offer a variation of the same reply he'd offered the other two times he'd asked over the last hour.

"Not a damn thing."

Nick was leaning back in his desk chair, hands steepled in front of his chest. He'd been surprised when Barton claimed no memory of his time with Loki. And as he listened to Barton calmly and repeatedly deny it, Nick had become certain of one thing.

They'd taught the kid to lie too damn well.

Romanoff seemed to have already come to terms with it, for now at least. But Nick, he remained skeptical. There was no reason for his skepticism. Barton showed no physical tell, no psychological tick to indicate he was lying.

And maybe that was the concern. Barton wasn't showing much of anything. He was just a shade above disassociated, was barely remaining engaged in the conversation but to repeatedly deny any knowledge of his two days as a prisoner of war.

The Clint Barton he knew was almost hyper-aware. He was observant to the point of it being listed as a 'tactical skill' in his file. Disassociated was not a term he could ever recall applying to the archer.

But then, he knew about Phil now, and that was most likely the root of the issue.

He wasn't sure what he expected, maybe for all the emotion Barton tended to keep locked down to finally break free. Maybe he expected grief to show or anger. He _hadn't_ expected _this,_ for Barton to have just withdrawn into himself.

Though it fit, he supposed. It was what he'd been like when Phil recruited him. Only now, Phil wasn't here to break through that steel-reinforced shell.

Nick had an idea of what to do about that, though. There was no one man that could replace Phil Coulson, but a team of men? Maybe they could.

With a sigh, he stood and moved to look out the large windows that showed him the deck of the carrier and the ocean beyond.

"I'm enacting protocol Delta-66," he announced without turning. He saw Romanoff's head perk up in the reflection of the glass, but Barton just blinked slowly.

"You want us to go to ground?" Romanoff asked in vague confusion.

Nick turned then and met her questioning gaze.

"I think it's for the best."

Her gaze sharpened.

"Why? Is the Council forcing the issue?"

"In terms of culpability in recent events, Barton won't be pursued for prosecution at this time. This isn't about the Council." Not entirely, at least. He'd managed to persuade them to hold off on their inquisition, to give Barton time to orient himself after the mind control.

He watched understanding dawn in Romanoff's gaze and she slid a look at Barton, who was still staring out the window. Fury took a breath and returned to his seat, sitting down with a sigh.

"Barton," he called firmly. When he received no response, he sharpened his tone and raised his voice slightly. "Agent Barton, you'll put your eyes on me when I'm addressing you."

Slowly, Barton's gaze shifted, coming to rest on Fury's without actually lifting his chin from his fist.

Nick couldn't even find it in himself to be pissed, not after everything that had happened.

"I know what he meant to you – maybe you think I don't, but I _do_. I'd have to be blind in both eyes not to, and even then it'd be damn hard to miss. So _I know_."

Barton just blinked, his expression unchanged.

"So you're going to take some time to deal with this," he glanced at Romanoff, " _both_ of you. I want you to go as far as you can, as fast as you can and get some _distance_ from everything that's happened."

"When?" Romanoff asked quietly.

Fury sighed and fixed his gaze on Barton's again.

"There's a memorial for those fallen tomorrow and Agent Coulson's funeral will follow on Monday. Consider yourselves on leave immediately following."

Barton held his gaze steadily, but Nick would have to be completely blind not to see the flash of emotion even _Barton_ couldn't hide at the mention of Phil. Almost immediately, Barton's gaze cut away.

"And until then?" Romanoff asked.

"Keep low, rest up, recover…" he continued to watch Barton stare out the window, "as best you can at least."

She nodded.

"How long do you want us to stay under?"

"As long as you need."

What he meant was 'as long as she could reasonably expect Barton to remain sidelined' and she could tell by her slight nod that she heard what he wasn't saying. Barton didn't do inaction well. He knew he could only reasonably expect Romanoff to keep him off grid for a couple weeks at most. As soon as he was healed physically, he'd be itching to get into the field, to be _doing._ He had an operator's mindset, always had. More than that, though, Nick expected he'd need the distraction.

He wasn't ready – given Barton's lack of participation in the conversation thus far – for the archer to suddenly speak up in a hard tone.

"No."

Nick blinked.

"No?" he questioned with a slightly disbelieving scoff. "'No' to which part?"

"All of it," Barton lifted his chin from his hand and sat back in his chair, meeting Nick's gaze unflinchingly. "We're not going to ground, we're not going to go skulk away and hide in the shadows. There's a job out there that needs doing." He tilted his head towards the window and the world that lay beyond it. "It's our job to do it."

"Barton…" Nick looked to Romanoff for some help, but she stayed silent, staring at Clint's profile until he slid his gaze over to meet hers. Then the two seemed to have some sort of telepathic conversation because she ended up nodding slightly. Then she faced Nick with the same resolve in her expression that Barton had.

"I don't need time," Barton explained firmly. " _Time_ won't change a damn thing. What I need is to work."

Nick sighed and looked back and forth between them. Stubborn, the both of them.

"You aren't physically up to snuff, Barton, even if I had a mission for you. You've got some recovering to do before you can be considered mission ready."

"I'm good to go," Barton insisted immediately.

"I'm sure you'd like to think that. But I know the opposite to be so," Nick challenged.

Barton's eyes narrowed in defiance and Nick arched an eyebrow. To drive his point home, he started listing every little thing his keen gaze had noticed since Barton had walked into his office.

"The way you're breathing, you've got busted ribs. You keep squinting and averting your eyes from the light – tells me you've got a concussion. Then there's that limp you think you're hiding. How about the exhaustion? Or did Loki let you take a siesta during his bid for world domination? While we're on that subject, how about food? Am I wrong to assume you probably didn't get anywhere close to your three squares while under his influence? Am I missing anything?"

Barton's gaze lit with stubborn pride and he straightened in his seat, as if to try and start disproving Nick's claims right then and there.

"You need to take a breather, Barton. So you're damn well going to take it. I promised your handler a long time ago that I'd never send you into the field injured if I could help it and I can damn well help it now. You're sidelined and that's the end of it."

Barton's glare was heavy and dark and spoke very effectively to his emphatic disagreement without him ever having to say a word. Nick sighed. The last thing he needed was Barton to go _looking_ for trouble in lieu of Nick serving it up to him on a mission platter.

"Two weeks, Barton. Take two weeks."

"Five days," came the archer's instant counter offer.

"Ten days," Fury negotiated.

"Seven."

"Ten – and I'll have a mission waiting for you when you report back."

Barton's intense gaze stayed locked on his for a long moment before he nodded.

Nick nodded in return and sat back in his chair.

"When you return, though, you'll both have a new overarching assignment."

Barton's eyebrow arched and he shared a look with Romanoff.

"You're both officially being assigned to the Avengers Initiative. You'll still carry out SHIELD-sanctioned missions when your skills are needed, but you'll spend the rest of your time serving as Avengers. Stark has offered his tower in Manhattan as a base of operations and residence for those involved. I strongly urge you both to take advantage of that."

Barton's eyebrow arched again.

"And by 'take advantage' you mean…" Barton trailed off skeptically.

"Consider it a strongly delivered suggestion."

Barton just continued to stare at him.

"For God's sake, Barton, do I need to make it an order?"

"To live with Stark?" Barton exchanged a doubtful glance with Romanoff. "Yes."

"Then consider yourselves so ordered."

Barton rolled his eyes and looked off towards the window again. Romanoff looked no more pleased with the newest development, but, ever the professional, she schooled her features to hide her annoyance and spoke with a level voice.

"You said you don't want us going to ground until after the funeral. Where do you want us until then?"

"Off the carrier for one. Pack your shit and lay low in that safe house you think I don't know about. Tension are high on board at the moment and I'd rather avoid any…incidents."

Incidents like an agent thinking Barton got off too easy, or maybe didn't quite buy the mind control story. The last thing he needed was Barton _or_ Romanoff being forced on the defensive. They'd lost enough agents already.

"Anything else?" Romanoff asked, reaching to rub a spot between her eyes. For the first time Nick noticed how truly exhausted she looked. Barton wasn't the only one running on fumes.

"At the moment, no. Coulson didn't have any family, so you two ar-"

"Celine." Barton's voice interrupted, quiet but firm. "Somebody needs to tell Celine."

Nick squeezed the bridge of his nose. He'd forgotten about Phil's relationship with the Paris base operator. They hadn't exactly broadcasted a casualty list, so chances are she hadn't been informed.

"I'll do it," Barton went on, gaze traveling to meet Nick's. "It should be me."

"Clint are you sure you-" Romanoff spoke up quickly, but Barton silenced her with a glance.

"It should be me," he said again.

"Fine," Nick allowed. "Handle it." He waved a dismissing hand. "You can both go."

Romanoff stood, but Barton didn't move.

"Something else on your mind, Barton?"

"I want to see the security feed of Loki killing Phil," Barton stated bluntly and without preamble.

Fury was actually stunned, and he was rarely ever stunned.

Romanoff looked equally surprised.

"Clint…"

He stood now, ignoring Romanoff and bracing his hands on Fury's desk so he could meet Nick's eye squarely.

"I want to see it. I _need_ to see it."

Nick stared back at him. It was a bad idea, the kind of idea that would only make everything worse.

"No," he denied firmly.

"It won't help, Clint," Romanoff added quietly.

"I don't care!" Barton practically growled. "Show me the damn footage."

"Barton," Fury stood, holding out a placating hand, "you need to take a step back…" He needed _distance_ , not a front-row seat.

"I have a right to see it." Barton's voice was razor sharp now, and had dropped a level as his anger rose. "Phil's fucking _last moments,_ Fury. How can you deny me that?"

How? Pretty damn easily.

"Because all it's going to do is hurt you," he snapped, leaning across the desk to glare right back at Barton. Then he took a breath and forced himself to calm down. Emotions were high across the board right now, _somebody_ needed to stay in control. "And that's the _last_ thing Phil would want."

He knew that to be fact. Phil would never want Barton to see what Loki had done.

"Clint, please," Romanoff's tone drew Barton's gaze immediately. Seeing she had his attention, she reached to rest a hand on his arm, either as a restraint or a comfort, it was impossible to tell. "You don't need to see it, Clint."

Nick could actually see Barton's shoulder's bow under the weight of her pleading. But then, like a snapped bow string, his posture straightened and he jerked his arm out of her grip, fixing his penetrating gaze back on Nick's.

"If you don't show me, I'll find someone that will."

Nick sighed. As if agents weren't jumping at the sight of Barton already, him going around threatening people into doing his bidding would only make it worse. Nick didn't need the headache and he didn't need the extra fires to put out.

_I'm sorry, Phil. You raised him stubborn._

He sent a glance of apology to Romanoff.

"Fine, Barton."

He sat and a few moments later had the footage cued. He met Barton's gaze again.

"You can't unsee this, Barton. Are you sure this is what you want?"

The archer's response was to round the desk and send him a fierce glare.

"Get out."

Nick felt his eyebrow arch. Had he just been ordered out of his _own damn_ office? He opened his mouth to tell Barton just where to put that command, but a hand on his arm stayed his tongue. Romanoff's look calmly asked him to just 'allow it'.

Nick sighed. He wasn't an idiot. He could see the razor's edge Barton was balancing on right now. He didn't want to be the one to shove him in the wrong direction. So he followed Romanoff to the door without comment and they left Barton alone.

* * *

"… _I don't even know what it does. Do you wanna find out?...Ahh!"_

Clint closed his eyes and clenched his jaw. He heard the sound of Loki dropping Thor off the carrier and forced his eyes open again.

" _You're going to lose."_

He watched Phil draw Loki back, keep him from leaving.

" _Am I?"_

Loki moved back to Phil, towering over him.

" _It's in your nature."_

Loki practically scoffed, the arrogant bastard. Clint's hands clenched, the urge to do something with them – like kill Loki slowly and painfully – was overwhelming.

" _Your heroes are scattered. Your floating fortress falls from the sky. Where is my disadvantage?"_

Phil's reply was quick.

" _You lack conviction."_

Clint saw it. He saw Phil's hand shifting on the gun. Loki had fallen for the trap like a fly to honey.

" _I don't think I…."_

He took very little satisfaction to seeing Loki get blasted through the wall. It was hard to get too excited about it when Clint knew all too well that the bastard had lived to keep wreaking destruction.

" _So that's what it does…"_

Then he watched Phil start to die, slowly and alone. His chest suddenly felt like a vice was closing around it. He couldn't breathe. Phil sat there, with no one and nothing but the gun in his lap.

The comforting numbness Clint had been holding firm to since the rooftop in Brooklyn started to fade and everything he'd been trying to bury and ignore started to boil to the surface.

He should have been there.

If _anyone_ should have been there with Phil, it should have been him. But instead he'd been trying to kill the woman who had come to mean the world to him, who completed the fractured pieces of his soul with the fractured pieces of hers.

He'd thought trying to kill her, trying to do _worse_ than kill her, was going to be the lowest, most destructive part of Loki's mind-fuck. But it wasn't.

It was this.

It was watching Phil die as a direct result of _Clint's_ plan, Clint's actions. He'd done this. He'd _let_ Loki do this. He'd shown Loki what Phil was to him. He'd been too weak to keep him from that truth.

He'd been too weak to stop _this._

He closed his eyes and clenched his hands.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry for the first time since he was 7 years old. He wanted to let the pain take root and let the anger take over.

But he didn't. He bit his lip until it bled and shoved the emotion away. He still didn't want to face it. Still _couldn't_. If he let himself fall apart, he was fairly damn certain he wouldn't be able to put himself back together again. So he buried it again. He shoved it deep and locked it down once again.

Phil would have been so angry. He'd always hated it when Clint shut down.

But Phil wasn't here. And right now Clint was going to do whatever he had to in order to keep it together.

So he opened his eyes, unclenched his hands, and looked back at the screen.

He continued watching with a level of dispassion that even _he_ found slightly terrifying.

When he was sure Phil was going to just fade away with no one to see him go, Fury arrived. Clint could barely focus on the words they exchanged. Something about making something work, about giving 'them' something…

The Avengers. Right. Phil's death, apparently, united them.

 _Why_ they'd needed a motivator, Clint didn't understand. They were supposed to be heroes. Fighting evil was supposed to be their default setting. How was it that they hadn't been able to get their shit together until it was _too damn late_?

Clint fought down a wave of irrational anger and told himself to pull _his_ shit together.

It hadn't been the _fighting_ part the team couldn't get right; it was the doing it _together_. Phil had given them common ground they'd previously been lacking.

Except Clint.

He was the odd man out. He hadn't known about Phil during the fight in the city. He'd been motivated by two things – good, old-fashioned revenge and the even more old-fashioned need to protect people. It was his nature, or so Phil had told him. He was a protector in his heart, a defender.

And now he was supposed to be one of the Avengers.

Phil had told him, not so long ago, about his place on this team. He'd told him that Clint's name had been the first one ever added to the list, before they'd even known Rogers still lived or that Stark would become Iron Man, before Banner's lab accident or Natasha had proven herself loyal.

Clint's name had been first.

He'd never understood why, still didn't. He wasn't a hero. He was a grunt worker – a down and dirty hit man. He was the guy that did the dirty work so nobody else had to. He dropped the bodies that needed dropping and he eliminated the problems that needed eliminating.

He wasn't a hero. He didn't deserve to share the same title as men like Rogers or even Stark.

But apparently, he didn't get a choice in the matter.

He _was_ one of them now, whether he wanted to be or not.

Phil finally got what he'd always wanted for him – his true purpose at SHIELD realized.

The footage cut out, just as one of the medics looked up at Fury and shook his head.

Clint immediately rewound it, watching it again. He paid closer attention this time, watching for details he missed the first time.

Then he watched it again.

And again.

He kept watching until he knew every frame by heart.

Only then did he sit back.

He stared at the screen, at the frozen frame of Phil's lax face.

It didn't feel real. It _still_ didn't feel _true_.

He should _feel_ it, the loss. There should be an emptiness. He'd known loss before. He remembered the day he truly realized his parents were gone forever. A hell of a way for a 6-year-old to spend Christmas, but one thing rang true…he'd finally known why his little 6-year-old heart had felt hollow. His heart had known what his head didn't yet. His parents were dead.

He should feel that same hollowness now, but he _didn't_.

Or maybe…maybe he'd just never filled the hollowness to being with. Maybe he wasn't as whole as he thought he was. Maybe the hollowness had just grown deeper with the loss of Phil.

Maybe that's why he didn't feel different, because he wasn't. He was still broken, just a little more now than he had been before.

Clint stood from the desk, doing his best to work the limp out of his step by the time he got to the door.

Fury was nowhere to be seen, but Natasha was waiting for him.

And so was Dan Wilson.

Clint nodded in return to the doctor's word of greeting and moved to stand with Natasha. She was studying him with startling intensity so he gave her a nod as well, trying to calm her fears.

 _No_ , he wasn't breaking down and coming apart.

 _Yes_ , he'd handled seeing Phil die with a relative sort of disassociated calm.

 _No_ , he didn't want to talk about it.

"You holding up, kid?" Dan asked him carefully.

Clint met his gaze and just stared.

It was a stupid question. Stupid questions didn't get answers.

There was no world where losing Phil would ever equate to him 'holding up.'

Dan nodded as if it was the exact response he'd expected.

"Sounds about right. Look, I wanted to talk to you two…" Dan shifted, shoving his hands into his pockets, his shoulders unnaturally hunched. "With everything that's happened," he lifted his gaze to Clint's, "which I hold you in _no way_ responsible for – _no way –_ I've decided to make some changes in my life. You two, I'm told, are moving up in the world, and this place just won't be the same without," Dan's voice caught and he cleared his throat. Clint noticed for the first time that the doctor's eyes were bloodshot and red, his skin pale. "It won't be the same without them…"

Clint frowned.

"Wait, what?"

Both Natasha and Dan stared at him. Clint looked back and forth between them.

"Them? Who else…" Clint trailed off as he put it together as he realized who else was glaringly absent. He met Dan's gaze, feeling his chest clench. "Todd?" he asked tightly.

Dan stared at him, eyes wide and looking every bit like a deer caught suddenly in the headlights of an oncoming Mack truck.

Clint felt the weight on his shoulders grow heavier and his stomach knotted. He looked from Dan to Natasha, his gaze hard and questioning.

"Is he dead?" he asked bluntly.

Natasha held his gaze unflinchingly, eyes apologetic.

"Yes," she answered quietly.

"Jesus Christ." Clint dug his palms into his eyes. The hits just kept on coming.

"I meant to tell you sooner," she explained carefully. "But with everything that you've been through…with what happened to Phil, I just didn't know how."

Clint dropped his hands and pulled away when she reached for his arm.

"It was fucking easy enough for you to tell me about _Phil_ ," he accused.

She flinched and dropped the hand she'd reached towards him.

"Clint, back the he-," Dan hissed lowly in warning, but Clint cut him off with a sharp look, warning him to stay out of it.

"That's not fair," Natasha replied sharply. "It _killed_ me to tell you that."

"Just like it killed you to lie to my goddamned face when it suited you?" his voice dripped with acid and he watched hurt and shame swirl through her eyes.

Clint wanted to take it back as soon as it was out of his mouth. He didn't know where this sudden anger was coming from or why he was directing it at Natasha. Maybe he knew, when the dust settled, that she'd forgive him and right now he just needed a goddamned outlet. This news about Todd felt like the last fucking straw and something _had to give._

"Barton, _shut up_." Dan snapped, his voice sharp.

"You," Clint glared at him, "stay the fuck out of it."

Dan bristled, gaze lighting with fire.

"Like hell," he shot back. Then he gestured at Natasha. "You don't get to talk to _her_ like that."

"Dan, it's okay," Natasha put in firmly. Clint looked at her then, meeting her gaze and seeing nothing but understanding and forgiveness.

"No, it really _isn't_ ," Dan hissed at her. He turned his glare back on Clint. "Like it or not, we're all you've got left. You're all _she's_ got left. You're in pain, kid, and I get it. B _elieve me_ , I fucking GET IT. They both meant something to me too. But you don't get to take that out on us."

Clint didn't look at him, hadn't broken his gaze from Natasha's. Still, her eyes held warmth for him. Still, they bled with the weight of everything she felt for him.

Just like that, the fire drained out of him.

He poured his apology into his gaze and didn't break his from Natasha's until she gave him a nod of acceptance. His voice was calmer when he spoke again.

"But I don't, do I?" he turned to face Dan, "have both of you?"

Dan's shoulders dropped and the doctor sighed.

"You're leaving," Clint deduced before Dan could reply. "That's what you came to tell us. You're leaving SHIELD."

Natasha looked to Dan in question and for a long moment the doctor held Clint's gaze bravely.

Then he nodded.

"I am," he confirmed quietly.

Clint clenched his jaw and nodded slightly even as Dan started to explain.

"Clint…I can't _do_ this anymore. I can't do this job without them, and I really don't want to. With you two moving to the city," he shrugged, "there's nothing keeping me here."

"You have Rachel," Natasha put in quietly.

Clint watched Dan's expression soften at the mention of his girlfriend, Clint's former physical therapist, Rachel Braxton.

"She's leaving with me. We were already talking about taking a step back, before any of this, before…" his expression fractured slightly, but then he steeled himself. "What happened … it just made the decision easier."

"Taking a step back?" Natasha asked. "Why?"

Now Dan smiled softly, something loosening in his features.

"She's pregnant."

Clint blinked, shocked.

"I'll be damned," he muttered under his breath.

Natasha smiled warmly.

"That's wonderful news, congratulations," she offered, squeezing Dan's arm.

Clint felt something like relief sweep through him. Dan was leaving SHIELD. He should be trying to make him stay, but instead…he was so relieved it was dizzying.

"It's good that you're leaving," Clint stated lowly. "You need to run as far and as fast from this goddamned place as you can and never look back."

He needed to leave before this place killed him too – before _Clint_ got him killed.

"Nobody's running, kid," Dan corrected quietly. "Especially not from you. You need me, you just call and I'll be there."

"Don't you get it?" Clint practically hissed. "This place is a sinking ship and I'm the goddamned hole in the hull. You need to get the hell out before I fucking drag you down and get you killed too."

"Clint," Natasha snapped. "You need to hear me, _right now_ , you didn't get _anyone_ killed."

Clint just shook his head. The evidence spoke for itself.

He met Dan's eyes again without bothering to even argue with her.

"Don't ever look back," he ordered quietly before turning and walking away.

His chest was tight, his head felt light, something in his lungs was battling to keep him from drawing in air. He walked faster, hands clenching at his sides. He just needed to get outside, needed fresh air.

SHIELD had been home to him for almost nine years now. But right now, today…

He goddamned _hated_ it.

* * *

Natasha forced a steady breath as Clint walked away and then turned to meet Dan's understanding gaze.

"Take care of him," Dan admonished quietly. "Sooner or later, he's going to break, and when he does, he's going to need you."

She nodded, but even as she did she felt helplessness well up in her heart. Before she could stop herself, she spoke.

"I don't know if I'm going to be enough," she admitted quietly.

Dan sighed, but squared his chin and looked at her steadily.

"Actually, I think you will be. Phil was home to him," he pointed out. "You know that as well as I do. He doesn't think he can go on without him. And we both know that's why he's refusing to face it right now." He nodded in the direction Clint had stormed off. "It's not fair, but it's on you to convince him that he can survive this. You need to be _home_ for him now."

She nodded, feeling her throat tighten. She didn't know if she was enough. She was terrified she wouldn't be.

"I can't lose him to this," she whispered fiercely. "But I don't know what to do."

"Be there," Dan told her gently. "He's going to tell you to leave, and knowing Barton, he's going to do everything in his power to try and drive you away. He's going to be hurting, and he's going to take the pain out on you. You know that ahead of time, you can deal with it."

Natasha nodded.

"If you stay in his line of sight, and he knows you're not going anywhere, sooner or later, he'll remember that he's not alone in this. And he won't ever be alone. Then," Dan sighed and ran his fingers through his hair, "maybe normal will start to creep back in."

She nodded, not quite trusting herself to speak.

"And don't think for a minute I don't know you need time to grieve, too. It sucks, and I don't even want to try to tell you it'll be easy." The edge of Dan's mouth started to quirk upward, just a little. "He's a pain in the ass, but he's our pain in the ass. Not exactly fair, but …" Just as quickly as it came, the hint of a smile was gone, and Dan's voice grew rough. "It was never fair to Phil either, but I guarantee you that Phil never regretted a minute of it. And I don't think you will either."

She lifted her chin slightly, her voice full of conviction when she replied.

"Clint is worth _whatever_ it takes."

Dan smiled sadly.

"That kid doesn't know how lucky he is to have you."

Natasha found herself smiling too as her mind drew up memories of him finding her in Germany and of everything that followed. If there was one thing she was certain of, it was that Clint valued her above _anything_ else in his life.

"I'm the one who's lucky," she countered softly.

She looked back in the direction Clint had disappeared, something in her gut tightening. He needed her. She needed to go.

She turned back to Dan and found him smiling slightly.

"I recognize that look. Your spidey-sense is tingling. Go, catch up to him."

She nodded, but didn't turn away yet.

"Take care of yourself, okay?" she instructed warmly.

He nodded.

"Rachel wouldn't let me do anything less. You two take care of each other and if you, _either of you_ , ever need anything. Call. I'll be there. And if you're ever in Italy, look me up."

"Italy?" she asked with an arched eyebrow.

"Rachel has friends there with a guest house we can borrow for the time being. I'll probably find something eventually. I've got friends there, too. And the distance right now…I think it'd be good."

Natasha nodded. Distance was sounding pretty good to her right now too.

He reached out and pulled her into a short hug.

"Goodbye, Natasha."

Natasha returned the hug.

"Goodbye, Dan," she whispered back.

Then they separated and she turned away, following Clint's path.

Everything was changing. Too many changes, too fast.

She just hoped they could recover from the fallout.

* * *

Clint burst out into the fresh air of the carrier deck, inhaling sharply. He walked quickly away from the workers milling around on the deck and headed for a hidden spot of dead space at the back corner of the carrier. Hidden from view now, he wrapped his hands around the railing, dropped his head to hang between his arms and forced himself to breathe.

Fury was right. He needed distance. He needed room to breathe and come to terms with everything that had changed.

For the second time in his life, his family had been ripped apart.

And it _hurt_ so goddamned bad. He felt like he was drowning.

He knew he needed to lock it down. He needed to take everything he was feeling about Todd's death, everything he was feeling about Dan's departure, and he needed to shove it in the same box he was keeping Phil's death.

He couldn't _do_ this. He couldn't _cope_ with all this shit. He just didn't have anything left to fight with. Loki had made sure of that.

His spine tingled, combat-honed instincts giving him a breath of warning.

He ducked, barely dodged the mechanic's wrench that went gliding through the space his head had been. He spun, staying low, to face the threat.

Three guys, all in agent uniforms, all holding some sort of blunt instrument, all blocking his exit.

He slowly straightened, staring them down.

"You want to try it?" he growled lowly. "Be my goddamned guest."

They didn't wait for a second invitation.

The fight was brutal and bloody. By the time they caught the attention of the others on the flight deck, Clint had already knocked out one of them. A lucky shot to his wounded leg, had him going to one knee. Even as he took down a second attacker, the third got in a solid blow to his back.

He hit the deck on his hands and knees and barely threw himself to the side in time to avoid a follow up shot at his head. He rolled unsteadily back to his feet, his bad leg not wanting to support him.

By now, a crowd had gathered.

Nobody joined in on the attack…but nobody stepped in to stop it either.

Clint met the gaze of the final attacker, spitting blood from his mouth before speaking.

"You want to finish this, we'll finish it," he stated firmly. "But you take a second and look at your buddies on the tarmac. You don't have to join them. But you come at me again and I will put you the fuck down."

Because whether he thought he deserved this or not, he had never and would never go quietly when faced with a fight. And he didn't want to hurt anyone else.

The attacker hesitated, glanced down at his unconscious buddies, and then stepped back, lowering his wrench.

Just like that, the tension dissipated. In the nick of time too, because Natasha came shoving through the crowd a breath later. The third attacker paled, realizing that had he made a different choice, he'd have ended up dealing with her, too. And she was notoriously less forgiving than Clint.

Natasha pushed to Clint's side and glared around at the crowd.

"This is done. Go," she hissed quietly.

Immediately the group dissipated. A few leaned in to pick up the unconscious bodies and soon enough they were alone.

Natasha turned to meet his gaze.

"You okay?" she asked, eyeing the blood dripping down his chin.

He just nodded. She looked skeptical, but nodded back.

"Let's get out of here," she suggested, reaching for his hand.

He let her take it and didn't resist as she pulled him into step with her.

As they walked to the jet that would take them back to the mainland, Clint knew he wasn't imagining the hate-filled glares that followed in his wake.

* * *

 _April 14, 2012_  
_4:57 p.m.  
_ _Undisclosed safe house in Brooklyn_

* * *

Clint stared down at his cell phone, then shifted his gaze over to the sheet of paper in his other hand. He'd gotten Celine Lambert's phone number from Hill easily enough. But now that he had it, he was finding it hard to force himself to dial.

He almost talked himself out of it. It was late in Paris, nearly eleven at night. She might be sleeping.

He shook his head at his own cowardly excuse. The world had been attacked by aliens. There was no way she was _sleeping_.

He heard a car horn honk outside and mentally rallied. Natasha wouldn't be gone long. She'd only gone downstairs to get a pizza.

He had to do this. It had to be him. He was the reason Celine and Phil called it quits, she deserved to hear this from him.

He dialed, tossed the paper onto the bed next to him, and then brought the phone to his ear.

It rang several times before connecting.

Celine Lambert's voice greeted him.

" _Lambert."_

"It's Barton," he replied simply, knowing that her sharp mind would be able to deduce everything from just those two words.

" _Agent Barton_ …" she stated slowly, her tone confused. In the moment of silence that followed, he could practically _hear_ her dread building as if it were a tangible thing. When she spoke again, she sounded gutted. _"Oh God…_ _ **no**_ _..."_ He was certain of it in that moment, she knew.

"I'm sorry," was all he could manage in response.

He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw when her breath hitched.

" _No…I just spoke to him, just days ago. He called me to tell me what had happened to you. I_ _ **just**_ _spoke to him. It can't…he_ _ **can't**_ _be…"_

"I'm sorry," he said again. "He's gone." Saying the words felt like driving a knife into his own gut and he doubled slightly, bracing his elbows on his knees and digging his free hand into his hair.

The numbness started to recede.

Her breath hitched again and a muffled sob broke free. Clint scrubbed his hand down over his face, leaving it to rest over his clenched eyes. He listened for several agonizing moments as she struggled to pull herself together, to retain her control. It seemed to be a hard fought battle, won through pure force of will. Eventually, she took a deep breath.

" _How?"_ she finally asked, the tremble in her voice gave way to the true depth of her devastation.

"Loki," he answered quietly. "Loki killed him." He didn't add what he was thinking. He didn't add that _he_ was to blame too. He may not have given the killing blow, but he might as well have.

He listened to her draw in a slow breath, trying to retain her composure.

Clint swallowed and cleared his suddenly dry throat.

"There's a funeral. Monday at 10 a.m.," he hesitated a moment and then went on, "He'd want you to be there."

" _Yes."_ Her breath hitched. _"Yes, I'll be there."_

Clint nodded, rubbing his hand up through his hair and down to squeeze the base of his neck, trying to alleviate some of the ache that his head couldn't seem to shake.

He listened to her take a sharp breath and muffle a sob behind her hand.

"I'm sorry," he offered quietly one last time and then lowered the phone, disconnecting the call. Even as he did, he heard her break, listened to her start to sob in earnest.

As selfish as it was, he was relieved when the sound was silenced.

For a moment he just sat there, phone in hand, eyes pinned on the floor.

His head pounded. His body ached. Her grief pulled at him, nudged away the numbness he was hiding in and threatened to unleash the pain he refused to acknowledge.

The breeze blew gently through the open balcony door, ruffling his hair. It carried with it whispered words, haunting him even though Loki was realms away.

" _You have heart."_

Clint closed his eyes, forcing a deep breath through his nose.

" _I will break you and leave you shattered on the ground!"_

He'd thought he'd won. He'd looked Loki in the eyes and claimed as much. But Loki had played him perfectly. He'd wrapped him up in Natasha so completely that Phil hadn't even crossed his mind. Even when he'd woken up, he'd been so horrified by what he'd tried to do to her, what he'd almost _done_ , that he hadn't even considered _Phil_ was the one that had actually been in danger.

" _You have shown me your heart…"_

Loki had drawn out each and every one of Clint's worst fears and he'd used every one he could. He'd turned him against Natasha. Made _Clint_ a weapon against her, meant to hurt, and meant to _destroy_. He'd turned Clint into the worst, darkest version of himself. And then he'd taken the one man that Clint had ever truly let himself depend on, _count_ on.

" _Now I will show you how I will_ _ **destroy**_ _it."_

Loki had done it. He'd won. He'd done what only one other person in the world had been able to do. And Barney's betrayal, his hatred, was something Clint would never understand – it still left a piece of him broken, a piece he kept buried deep.

And now…Loki had broken him too.

Clint stood abruptly, phone slipping from his fingers as his gaze zeroed in on his target.

In four strides he was at his quiver, was swinging it onto his back and reaching for his bow where it leaned against the wall. He pulled the string over his head even as he moved to the balcony doors with determined, unwavering steps.

He couldn't do it. He couldn't face it.

He wasn't strong enough.

He climbed the ladder to the roof and moved to uncover the old archery target he kept stored there. Without pausing he paced to the opposite end of the roof and pulled his bow free of his body.

He didn't want to feel anything.

He drew an arrow, nocked it and pulled the string back to his cheek.

He wanted to be numb.

He let the arrow fly and drew another.

* * *

_End of Chapter 13_

_Reverting to old habits...that's Clint's go-to move, has been since the beginning. It's almost like he's coming full circle...emotionally at least, he's reverting back to how he was when Phil found him and it's so sad._

_Now, we're nearing the end of this one...only a few chapters left now. Meet me back here tomorrow for the next installment, until then, drop me a line and enjoy your preview_

* * *

_"Yesterday they were honoring friends, some of them family. My being there would have just stirred things up and taken the focus away from where it belonged."_

_"Last I checked, **you** had a friend being honored yesterday too." Nick watched Barton's profile as the agent's gaze settled on Todd Bryan's name once again._

_When Barton spoke it was almost too quiet for Nick to hear._

_"More like family." He watched the muscle at the base of Barton's jaw twitch as he clenched it. "And he would have understood."_


	14. I'm Standing Up, I'ma Face My Demons

_Disclaimer: I do not own "The Avengers" or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works. I do not claim any of the directly quoted lines from "The Avengers" as my own, they belong to Marvel and the writers._ _The cover art came from a google search with the original source being pinterest where it was credited to Anthony Genuardi._

 _Author's Note: While I embrace_ **_constructive_ ** _criticism, remember this old saying if you choose to leave a review "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all"_

* * *

 _Alrighty, thanks to all who reviewed Chapter 13:_ **GoldOwl89, RandominatorOwl, Kali588, CTScan, and HappyFan**

_You can guess the song up until I tell you what it is in the final chapter!_

_As usual, thank you to my wonderful betas_ **Kylen** _and_ **JRBarton _._** _Who knows where i'd be without them :)_

 

_Now, on we go!_

* * *

_Last time in The Untold Stories:_

_He didn't want to feel anything._

_He drew an arrow, nocked it and pulled the string back to his cheek._

_He wanted to be numb._

_He let the arrow fly and drew another._

* * *

_Battles are lost in the same spirit in which they are won.  
_ _**Walt Whitman** _

* * *

_April 14, 2012_  
_5:03 p.m.  
_ _Undisclosed safe house in Brooklyn_

* * *

Natasha pushed the door open, pizza box in hand, and called out.

"You know the free garlic knots Enzo always gives us? He held out on us this time…I think it's because it was me instead of you…I'm telling you, throw the guy a bone and we'll be eating free for life."

She nudged the door closed and keyed in the lock sequence. Worry spiked through her when there was no immediate response. Clint had been fully conscious when she left, but exhaustion and emotional trauma did funny things to people and she was suddenly concerned he'd passed out again. Even as her heart rate spiked, she knew there were _numerous_ reasons he hadn't answered.

He could be in the bathroom. He could be outside. Hell, he could just be _asleep._ God knew he needed the rest.

Even so, she took quick steps out of the entry way, eyes scanning the apartment.

It took all of a few seconds to put it together.

Phone abandoned on the floor. Missing Clint. Missing bow. Open balcony door.

The adrenaline-fueled worry faded, only to be replaced by a different kind of worry.

Clint and his bow when emotional trauma was in play – never a good thing.

She abandoned the pizza box on the bed and headed out on to the balcony. But halfway through the door she paused and back tracked to the bathroom on a whim.

Sure enough, still laying right where she'd tossed them the day before – his archery guards.

It wasn't surprising. If he was up there doing what she thought he was doing, it was to make himself hurt. He was doing it so that everything else would fade away and all that would be left was the physical. He wanted pain. He wanted bleeding fingers and bruised skin.

Because if he lost himself in that, in that physical pain and the strain of firing his bow until he _couldn't_ , he would become numb to everything else.

And right now, that's what he needed.

She drew in a fortifying breath and grabbed the guards of the counter, making her way back to the balcony doors. Through the sounds of the streets and the swirling of the wind she could hear the familiar sound of an arrow slamming home into a target.

With a sigh, she started climbing the ladder.

He was exactly as she expected him to be – standing across the roof from a target, bow drawn, expression set like stone.

Clint Barton's version of coping.

Some people got drunk to escape their problems. Clint fired his bow until his arms were made of lead and his fingers were bleeding.

She didn't try to say anything to stop him. It would be useless at this point and he would just ignore her.

Instead, she just moved closer, timing her steps so that she stepped right in front of him just as he drew back his bow string.

He froze, bow drawn, eyes hard.

"Move." The order was issued quietly, in a darkly terrifying tone.

They both had their dark places they went to when things were at their worst. He'd ventured into hers after Germany, to keep her from being swallowed by it. She would do the same.

So she just stared at him, unmoved.

His arms trembled slightly, just once. It didn't matter how strong you were; you could only hold a bow weighted that heavily drawn for so long.

"Natasha, _move_."

"Put it down," she countered firmly.

Anger lit his gaze and she went on before he could direct it at her.

"I get why you have to do this. I'm not trying to stop you."

His eyes narrowed.

"But if you're going to put yourself through this, you're going to wear these."

She held up the guards so he could see them.

His eyes flicked down to them and then back up to meet her gaze.

"I don't want them."

"I don't care."

Their glares met in a battle of wills and finally, when his arms shook again, he shifted, firing the bow off at an angle. She listened to it ricochet off something metal and then hit the target a moment later. She didn't have to look to know it'd be dead center.

"Put them on," she demanded.

He just backed a step away from her, expression firmly resolved.

"I swear to God, Clint, if you don't put these damn things on, I will drop you, right here, right now."

And she would. She was drawing a goddamned line in the sand. He wanted to punish himself. He wanted to go numb. _Fine_. She'd let him cope. She didn't have it in her to force him to face the loss of Phil head on, not so soon. But she would not stand by and let him add injuries to a list that was already too damn long.

He didn't question her ability or resolve to fulfill her threat, but he did shake his head and turn away from her.

It stung.

"Don't do that. Don't shut me out, Clint."

She watched his head shake again, but he didn't turn around.

"I'm here, _with_ you. Be here with _me,_ " she requested quietly.

When he finally spoke, he didn't turn, kept his head down and his face hidden.

"What do you want from me, Natasha?" he asked, his voice harder than she'd heard it in a long time. "Cuz if I'm being honest…" he turned then she almost couldn't take the heartbreak she saw in his eyes. "I don't have anything left to give you right now. It's taking everything I have just to _keep it together._ " His voice shook, giving life to the very struggle he was referring to.

"I don't want anything from you," she insisted carefully. She held up the guards. "Nothing but this."

He shook his head again.

"Don't you get it? I _want_ the pain. I need it."

"Oh, I get it." She moved slowly closer. "And you can fire that bow until you can't lift your arms anymore, I won't stop you. But I need _this_ from you. Do it because I'm asking, Clint."

She saw the war start to rage in his eyes. Refusing her wasn't easy for him. It was a power she held that she rarely seriously used. To her surprise, he finally just shook his head and backed further away, turning to face the cityscape behind him.

"Clint…"

He interrupted her, his voice no longer hard, not angry, not even really strong.

Instead…he sounded broken.

"I don't know what to do."

She moved quietly closer until she stood by his side, looking out over Brooklyn with him.

"I can't," his voice broke and he lowered his head, shaking it slightly as he cleared his throat. "I can't deal with it. I can't face it right now, _any of it_. Just the _thought_ …" he broke off, voice catching and prompting him to clench his jaw and eyes shut for a moment before he forced himself to go on. "I can't open that door. If I do, I won't be able to close it and I just _can't_ …"

"I get it," she assured softly, shifting so their arms were touching. So he'd _feel_ that she was there.

"What I _want_ ," he went on, "is to go to Asgard and put an arrow through Loki's heart. And if that doesn't kill him, I'll find something that does. That's what I _want_ more than anything. But that particular door was slammed in my goddamned face before I even knew I'd want to go through it."

She fought the urge to look away. She was partly to blame for that. She'd participated in the deception that kept Phil's fate a secret. She opened her mouth, not exactly sure what she intended to say, but he kept talking before she had a chance.

"But even if I could get to Asgard…even if I could get my hands on Loki, it wouldn't matter. Cuz I wouldn't do a damn thing to him, you know why?" He scoffed a half laugh that was as heartbreaking as it was sarcastic. "Because the son of a bitch made me _promise._ "

He finally turned to face her, eyes shining with tears she knew he'd never allow to fall.

"He made me promise after what happened at the base two years ago that if the worst happened, I wouldn't go backwards, that I wouldn't take you backwards with me."

She held his gaze, not sure yet what to say.

"So what do I do?" he tossed his hands up helplessly. "I can't move forward. I can't go backwards…so _what do I do_?"

Dan's advice floated through her consciousness as she stared at him and searched for words.

_Be there._

Then she knew – that advice could go both ways.

"You stay," she stated softly.

He searched her gaze, brow furrowing slightly.

"You _stay_ , Clint. Stay with me, _here_." She stepped forward and put her palm against his chest, over his heart. "This is what matters, Clint. You do what you have to do to keep it together _here_. Whether it means we stay in New York or go build a new life somewhere else, we'll do it. But, Clint," she leaned a little to hold his gaze when he tried to look away, "no matter what we do, you _have_ to stay with me. Because _one day_ – I don't know when, but one day – you'll be ready to take that first step forward. And when you are, I will be there ready to take it with you. And when that happens, everything between now and then, all those things that you don't think mean anything now, will mean _everything_ to you then."

It was hard to read him for several moments. He just stared at her, deliberating.

She held out the arm guards.

"I'm not asking you to be okay, Clint. I'm not asking you to stop being angry. I'm not asking you to face anything. You do whatever you have to do to keep it together, and I'll be right here with you. Just be _here with me_ , okay?"

Then, slowly, he reached to take the guards. In her relief, she almost missed his quiet words as he strapped them into place.

"You're _already_ everything to me, Natasha. You want me to stay? I'll stay." He raised his gaze and met hers. "I'm here, with you."

She didn't trust herself to speak so she just nodded, stepped up to him and gave him a quick, but passionate kiss, using the brief moments to try and convey everything she felt for him. Then she backed away. After a moment he turned, facing his target across the rooftop.

He drew an arrow.

And fired.

* * *

 _April 16, 2012_  
5:45 a.m.  
_New York SHIELD base_

* * *

Nick Fury stepped silently into the memorial room, gaze going immediately to the solitary man already inside. He watched Barton slowly walk down the length of freshly carved wall, eyes scanning over the numerous freshly lasered names, etched in granite over the last 48 hours, that were unveiled yesterday.

Barton hadn't been there, at the memorial. At least, Nick hadn't seen him. He supposed that was why the archer was here now, to pay his respects in his own way. That didn't mean his absence was excusable, or that it had gone unnoticed. When the likes of Natasha Romanoff showed up anywhere, people noticed. The distinct _lack_ of her usual counterpart had been impossible to miss.

"There was a memorial for the agents those names belong to, _yesterday,_ " Nick said in order to announce his presences. Barton didn't seem the least bit surprised, but then, Nick hadn't really expected to surprise him.

Barton didn't offer anything by way of response, instead just seemed to ignore him all together as he stepped up to a particular spot on the wall.

Nick watched him lift his hand, hesitate, then complete the action, fingers carefully tracing over one of the names.

Nick stepped closer so he could see which one.

Todd Bryan.

"I expected all of my agents to be in attendance to honor those that lost their lives."

Barton slowly withdrew his hand from Agent Bryan's name, but didn't turn to face him as he finally responded.

"I didn't think it was a good idea."

"No? You don't think they deserved your attendance?"

"I don't think my attendance would have been all that welcome."

Nick sighed. He'd heard about the altercation on the flight deck. He'd heard the whispered rumors – and some not so whispered – surrounding Barton's involvement in the events of Loki's invasion. There was some bad blood running pretty thick these days. Nick had been able to thwart the Council's instinct to attack and hold Barton responsible in some way, but only barely. The rest of SHIELD was proving even harder to convince.

"What happened with Loki, it wasn't on you, Barton. They'll see that in time."

The corner of Barton's mouth turned down slightly.

"Maybe. And maybe I wouldn't blame them so much if they didn't." He stepped back from the wall and went on in a stronger tone before Nick could comment on that. "Yesterday they were honoring friends, some of them family. My being there would have just stirred things up and taken the focus away from where it belonged."

"Last I checked, _you_ had a friend being honored yesterday too." Nick watched Barton's profile as the agent's gaze settled on Todd Bryan's name once again.

When Barton spoke it was almost too quiet for Nick to hear.

"More like family." He watched the muscle at the base of Barton's jaw twitch as he clenched it. "And he would have understood."

Nick inclined his head in agreement. Todd Bryan was one of the few that would have been more likely to forgive Barton anything than hold it against him. And he was one of the few that could have actually claimed to know the archer well enough to have _expected_ something like his absence at the memorial.

Without warning, Barton turned, thrusting his hand out and offering a small object to Nick.

"I want you to bury this with him."

Somehow Nick knew the 'him' Barton was referring to wasn't Todd Bryan. He blinked, a bit taken aback by the non sequitur, and looked down at the object – a medal. A medal he knew belonged to Phil Coulson, inherited through the generations of the Coulson men. If Barton had it…

"He gave that to _you_ for a reason, Barton."

Something in Barton's eyes turned, hardening. It was as if walls were being erected to guard the walls Barton already had in place. He was shoring his defenses, making sure Nick wouldn't get a glimpse beyond the surface. But as it turned out, Barton's next words, gave way to the depth of the emotion he was so resolutely hiding.

"He was wrong."

Nick prided himself on his stoicism. His ability to take shit in stride and keep a steady expression and a steadier hand was what inspired confidence in those that worked for him. But, for all his stoicism, he suddenly felt as if someone had reached into his chest, taken a grip on his heart, and squeezed. He knew Barton's insecurities ran deep – deeper than his normal cocky bravado would ever let on – but he hadn't known him to question his place with Phil in _years_.

This thing with Loki, losing Phil, it had shaken him – even more deeply than Nick had realized.

"Barton…"

"Just take it." Barton snatched one of Fury's hands and pressed the medal into it. "It belongs with him."

Nick weighed the medal in his hand and fixed Barton with a heavy look.

"He gave this to you, because he looked at you and saw family, he saw a son, not an agent. What happened doesn't change that."

Barton's entire expression hardened to stone, and his eyes lit with something like anger. Anger at who? Nick could only guess.

"It does for me," Barton stated in a low, dark tone.

Nick didn't need a mirror to know his own cool, composed expression failed him in that moment, if only minutely. But Barton didn't seem to notice or care, and the usual comment alluding to a fluffy teddy bear was nowhere to be found.

"Barton…" Nick tried, but the archer shook his head sharply, stalling whatever words Nick was planning to say.

"Don't. Empathy's not a good look on you. All I need from you is to put _that_ with him. Got it?"

Nick lifted his chin a little and squared his shoulders. Barton didn't want to be coddled. That was fine. Nick was shitty at coddling. But as he met Barton's stony gaze, Nick couldn't help but feel like he was letting Phil down. That Phil would want him – no, _expect_ him – to step up and derail whatever self-destructive path Barton had set himself on.

He opened his mouth, maybe to do just that. But he found that the words stuck in his throat. He didn't know what the hell to say. The one thing that would actually help, the one thing that Barton needed…Nick couldn't give it to him.

So instead, he closed his mouth and hoped Phil could forgive him.

Barton's gaze was steady on his. He could tell the archer had seen the aborted attempt at comfort and he didn't look at all surprised that Nick had failed.

Fury cleared his throat, closing his fingers around the medal.

"I take this to mean you won't be there today, either."

The laugh that burst from Barton's lips a moment later held no trace of humor, or even a hint of the archer's usual sarcasm. Instead, the sound was nothing short of broken. It was the first real glimpse Nick had gotten of the emotion Barton kept so fiercely guarded.

"You think I could actually stand there and say _goodbye_ to him? That I could just take this on the chin and _accept_ it? You think – after _all_ the shit of the last few days – that I've got that left in me?" Barton shook his head and backed away, starting to turn for the doorway. "There's no way I'm getting within a thousand yards of that funeral."

Nick reached out and caught Barton's elbow, halting his retreat and drawing a sharp glare from the archer. But Nick had been the director of SHIELD since before Barton had even been a whisper on their radar. It would take more than a glare to make Nick back down. So he held firm to Barton's elbow and met the assassin's hard gaze with his own.

"So is this your answer? You going to run and hide from reality? Bury your head in the sand?"

Barton's gaze lit with fresh anger and he ripped his arm out of Nick's grip.

"Where the hell could I hide even if I wanted to? Huh? There's no _hiding_ from this, from _any of it._ But that doesn't mean I've got it in me to face it right now either."

Nick lifted his chin a little and looked down at Barton with a steady expression.

"Is that why you're lying about Loki? So that you don't have to face it?"

To Barton's credit, his expression didn't change. He gave no visual indication to the validity of the call on his supposed bluff. He just continued to stand there and glare at Nick.

"I didn't get to be the director of an organization like SHIELD without being able to spot a lie when it's laid out in front of me. And I know better than I know anything else right now, that you, kid, are lying. Why Romanoff hasn't picked up on it, is anyone's guess. I suppose that's she's just got a lot on her mind already."

He held Barton's gaze and waited for Barton to flinch, or look away, something to indicate the gig was up. But Barton was unmoved, refusing to admit his deceit…or maybe clinging to it.

"I think maybe I get it, Barton," Nick realized. "We both know what they'd do if they knew you remembered."

'They' being the Council. If they knew, if they even _suspected_ that Barton had knowledge of the inner workings of Loki's schemes or the secrets to the scepter that was left behind...if they thought _anything_ could be gained from forcing that knowledge from Barton…

Nick clenched his jaw. He was proud to work for SHIELD, proud to call himself the organization's leader. But he was no fool. SHIELD wasn't the white to the black of the world. It had its own shades of gray and more than a few shades of black. Hell, he was talking to the organizations premiere distance _assassin_. The hope was that they did enough _good_ that at the end of the day that the ends would justify the means.

Needless to say, if the Council saw fit, SHIELD had their own wicked ways for forcefully extracting information.

Barton wasn't stupid. He operated in SHIELD's shades of gray. He would know that too.

"You won't be able to keep a lid on it forever, not from everyone. Once she's seeing straight again, you and I both know Romanoff will sniff you out." Nick watched a slightly wry look cross Barton's face and it made the corner of Nick's own mouth tug upwards. "But as far as anyone else needs to be concerned, you don't remember a lick of it and you never will."

Barton's chin dipped slightly in acknowledgement and he turned to leave again. Fury drew in a breath and let it out as a sigh. He could almost hear a familiar voice whispering in his mind, telling him to take one more step, to do what Phil would do if he were standing here instead.

"And Barton," the archer stopped at the doorway and turned back with an arched eyebrow, "whatever you remember, whatever you don't…it doesn't change anything. What happened was not your fault. No one that matters holds you responsible."

Something shifted in Barton's posture, but Nick was too far away to read what it was.

Barton hesitated at the door, looked away and then looked back, meeting Nick's gaze across the memorial room.

He didn't say a word. But Nick heard him loud and clear.

_I do._

Then Barton was gone.

* * *

 _April 16, 2012_  
_10:17 a.m.  
_ _Funeral of Agent Phillip Coulson, New York_

* * *

Natasha sat in a hard plastic chair, hands folded loosely in her lap. On her left was Celine Lambert, head of the Paris SHIELD base and Phil's former flame. On her right was Pepper Potts and next to her, Stark. Bruce filled out their row of chairs and Steve stood at the end, spine straight and shoulder's back.

Celine had asked if they should leave a seat open for Clint.

Natasha had quietly told her 'no.'

The looks of shock mixed with annoyed anger that had filtered across the faces of the other Avengers hadn't been surprising. Celine, on the other hand, had just nodded, eyes soft. She understood. The others, they didn't – _couldn't_. How would they? They didn't really know Phil. They didn't really know Clint. They had no idea what the two had been to each other. To them, Clint's absence was a sign of disrespect, it was cowardly even.

But Natasha knew it had just been necessary for survival.

Clint hadn't even said Phil's name, not since Fury's office and their argument after. He'd told her himself that he wasn't ready. That he _couldn't_ deal with it right now, he couldn't move forward.

She hadn't pushed. She'd been afraid to, afraid of what he would do. Afraid he would run… _without_ her.

She smoothed an imaginary crease in the skirt of her black, cocktail-length dress as Fury spoke about sacrifice and honor. As he told all those in attendance – and there had to be over a hundred people standing at her back – about the kind of man Phil Coulson had been, she found she couldn't listen.

Many could claim to have known Phil Coulson, but few could actually call him a friend. She had been so lucky.

He had been the best kind of friend and an even better handler. He hadn't always trusted her – and who could blame him? When they'd met, she'd been traveling under Clint's protection with a hit still ordered by SHIELD's own Council. But time had changed things between them… _Clint_ had changed things. Clint had made a decision to trust her – trust her dedication to changing her ways at least. In time, he'd trusted her more fully. And in the wake of that trust had come Phil's.

But despite the years of being Clint's partner, of having Phil as her handler, his trust in her hadn't been made complete until just before Budapest. She still remembered that day as clearly as if it had happened only a moment ago.

" _I trust you…I trust you with him."_

Trust.

She lived her life by that word, by that choice. There were three kinds of people in her life: the ones she trusted, the ones she didn't – and Clint. The people she trusted were few, the list short enough to be numbered on one hand.

And now – after the battle was finally over and the finally tally of the lost was in – that list was even shorter.

She clenched her jaw against the tightening of her throat and listened to Hill step up to the podium, calling all the SHIELD agents to attention.

She stood, heard those behind her stiffen their postures.

"We're not military," Hill stated somberly, "not officially. Agent Coulson wasn't a soldier, not by normal standards. But at SHIELD, we hold the same values of this nation's, of any nation's, military. We honor those that served our cause, and especially those that died for it. And if ever a man deserved that honor, it was Phil Coulson." She looked over at the picture standing next to the closed casket. "Keep watch on our six for us, Overwatch."

She stepped back and saluted.

Agents behind Natasha followed suit, Rogers included.

Natasha didn't move. She wasn't a soldier, not in anyone's army. She would honor Phil in other ways, by being everything he believed she could and would be. By protecting the only other person in the world that meant something to her – the same person that had meant everything to Phil.

She stared at the casket, at the American flag draped over it.

And she felt his gaze on her.

Natasha closed her eyes and let out a breath.

Clint was here. He wasn't close, the familiar electric connection they shared wasn't humming as it usually did when they were near each other. But he was watching.

He had picked the same middle of the road he'd chosen on the rooftop a few nights ago.

He wouldn't go backwards, but he couldn't move forward.

He wouldn't stay away, but he couldn't show up.

He was doing what he had to do to survive this. To survive losing Phil.

If that meant all he could offer right now was simply that he would 'stay,' that was okay.

She would stay with him.

* * *

Clint kept his handheld scope pressed to his eye. He sat on the seat of his Ducati – one leg braced down on the ground, the other hooked over the front of the seat, knee bent and boot dangling in open air.

He hadn't looked at the casket yet, or the flag that covered it. He hadn't looked at the picture next to it or the tombstone set behind the hole beneath it. He'd watched Fury, deciphered what he'd said as he gave his speech. Then he'd watched Hill and done the same.

Then, when there were no more speeches, and people had started moving forward to pay their respects, he'd looked for Natasha.

As usual, for just a moment, when he first caught sight of her, her absolute, transcendent beauty took his breath away. As if sensing his gaze, her head turned slightly, eyes searching. Then her attention was stolen away by Celine Lambert, who leaned in closely to speak to her.

Almost like a supernatural line was tied to his hand, he felt the scope pull to the left. He saw a flash of red and white stripes.

The scope hit the grass with a dull thud.

Clint blinked into the morning sun and drew in a sharp breath. His gaze dropped to his hands, and he wasn't the least bit surprised to find them shaking. He clenched them both tightly, feeling the bite of his nails digging into his palms.

He closed his eyes and breathed in sharply through his nose.

He clenched his hands tighter, feeling the pull of the muscles through his arms and shoulders – fatigued already from countless hours firing his bow over the last few days.

He forced his mind to focus on the ache in his arms, on the pain in his palms and the burn in his shoulders. He focused on the bruises on his body, the ache in his knee and ankle, and the headache he couldn't shake.

He turned every bit of focus inward, drawing up every fleeting bit of physical pain until it was the only thing that filled his mind.

As long as the pain was his focus, nothing else could be. He could stay numb. He could stay stuck in this limbo that he'd taken shelter in. Neither insisting that Phil was still alive nor accepting that he was gone.

His heart couldn't take the irrationality of the former, or the heartbreak of the latter. So limbo was his salvation.

He wasn't sure how long he sat there – focusing, forcing his mind to dwell on his physical pain, before an approaching presence had his eyes opening abruptly. He didn't look over his shoulder to see who it was. He already knew.

Natasha stepped silently up to his side to lean back against the bike next to him and looked out over the cemetery. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the wind gently ruffle her hair, blowing a few strands across her face. She absently reached to tuck the wayward hairs behind her ear and then finally spoke.

"Fury greenlighted us to go. Whenever you're ready, we can put this city in our rearview for a while."

Clint felt a sudden urge to leave right now. To hell with packing a bag. He just wanted to climb on his bike with Natasha and drive. What startled him more, was he couldn't seem to grasp a matching desire to return.

He'd argued with Fury only days ago about the length of this forced leave. He'd said he needed to work. He did. He needed the distraction. But to get to that he had to make it through the next ten days. And he wasn't so sure he could.

"I don't know if we should leave," he admitted suddenly. The comment drew her gaze to settle on his profile and she remained silent, waiting. He looked down at his boots, chewing his lower lip and went on, "If we go…I'm not so sure I'm gonna want to come back."

Understanding softened her expression and she nodded slightly.

"That's okay," she allowed quietly. "We get away from here and you decide you don't want to come back, we won't come back."

Clint shook his head.

"I can't ask you to give up your life here, Natasha. I won't."

"We come back together or not at all, Clint. There's no me _here_ , without you."

He turned to look at her now, meeting her gaze and easily reading the sincerity in her eyes.

She quirked her lips a little.

"In case it's escaped your attention, Barton, you're kind of _it_ for me."

He watched her push off the bike and turn to face him. He allowed her to step into his space and didn't pull away when she reached to wrap her arms around his neck.

"I'm with you, whatever you need, got it?"

He nodded slightly. He didn't deserve her. He hoped to hell the day never came where she realized that for herself.

She gave him a little tug and he finally let himself melt into her arms. He wrapped his own around her waist and dropping his forehead down to her shoulder.

She'd asked him to stay, in his heart, to stay with her. To not shut her out. He'd told her he would.

But even as he held her now, the dark cloud of his lie hovered over him.

He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to ignore the guilt of that choice as it churned in his gut.

He could lose her over this. He wouldn't blame her for walking away if she ever uncovered his deception. But even knowing that, he couldn't bring himself to confess. He couldn't bring himself to share the crushing burden Loki had cursed him to bear.

Those days of hell, his memory of them, they were the proof of his guilt. They were the evidence that he bore blame for everything that had happened. He'd been aware. He'd known what he was doing and he hadn't cared. He'd brought destruction and had left death in his wake.

He couldn't tell her. He couldn't face the look in her eyes when she realized what he was. When she realized he didn't deserve her. When she realized he wasn't the man she thought he was.

He couldn't tell her because he couldn't take losing her too.

Unaware of his guilt-ridden thoughts, she pulled back, giving him a warm smile.

"Ready?" she asked gently.

He couldn't find his voice to reply, so he just nodded.

"Let's go," she stepped back to give him room to shift his legs back into place on his Ducati. Then she climbed on behind him. Clint waited for her to get settled, waited for her arms to wrap tightly around his waist, then he put the dispersing funeral in his rearview and didn't look back.

* * *

_End of Chapter 14_

_So...that was sad...*offers you tissues* Clint just can't right now. He literally CAN'T. He's never been good with handling emotions and Phil was his anchor in that, he's the one that helped Clint cope in a healthier way. But Phil's not there and poor Clint is doing the only thing he can to keep his head above water. He's shutting it off._

_So...only 3 chapters left. We've got a bit more traumatic angst to get through as we work our way towards where we found Clint and Nat in Vantage Point. Hopefully you all are continuing to enjoy the ride!_

_Until tomorrow, drop me that line that you know I want ;) and enjoy your preview_

* * *

_She frowned, pieces starting to fall into place as she thought back over the last several days since he'd woken up. Small contradictions, indicators, easily missed in the moment in light of the war they'd been fighting. The zoning out. The PTSD-like symptoms._

_It hit her like a freight train, then, and she **knew**._

_He remembered._


	15. I'm Manning Up, I'ma Hold My Ground

_Disclaimer: I do not own "The Avengers" or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works. I do not claim any of the directly quoted lines from "The Avengers" as my own, they belong to Marvel and the writers._ _The cover art came from a google search with the original source being pinterest where it was credited to Anthony Genuardi._

 _Author's Note: While I embrace_ **_constructive_ ** _criticism, remember this old saying if you choose to leave a review "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all"_

* * *

 _Alrighty, thanks to all who reviewed Chapter 14:_ **RoS13, donttouchlola447, HamHam2931, Kali588, RandominatorOwl, HappyFan**

_You can guess the song up until I tell you what it is in the final chapter!_

_As usual, thank you to my wonderful betas_ **Kylen** _and_ **JRBarton _._** _Who knows where i'd be without them :)_

 Now, _on we go!_

* * *

_Last time in The Untold Stories:_

_"Let's go," she stepped back to give him room to shift his legs back into place on his Ducati. Then she climbed on behind him. Clint waited for her to get settled, waited for her arms to wrap tightly around his waist, then he put the dispersing funeral in his rearview and didn't look back._

* * *

_Mankind must put an end to war before war puts an end to mankind._  
**_John F. Kennedy_ **

* * *

_April 19, 2012_  
_2:07am  
_ _Undisclosed safe house, Southern California_

* * *

" _You have shown me your heart, Agent Barton."_

_Clint flinched, eyes snapping open. His hand tightened instinctively around the gun he'd slid under his pillow when he and Natasha had gone to bed, but his hand closed into an empty fist. Adrenaline surged through his system, sending every sense into overdrive._

_He was out of the bed with a twist of his body, set in his combat stance, with his eyes searching for the threat._

" _Tash!" he hissed lowly, knowing the call would rouse her from even the deepest sleep._

_But the lump under the blankets on the other side of the bed didn't move, didn't even stir._

_Clint's eyes continued to scan the room, looking for the owner of that voice – looking for Loki. He didn't know how the god had gotten back from Asgard. Or how he had found them. They were so off the radar, the road that_ _**led to** _ _the road that led this house wasn't even on a map._

" _Natasha!" he called again, firmer this time, even as he moved over to his pile of clothes at the foot of the bed and patted around for his knives. Frustration swept through him when he found those gone as well._

_When his partner still didn't move, Clint made his way quickly to her side of the bed, reaching for her shoulder. It was as dangerous to wake her by touch as it was to wake him that way – they'd learned both the hard way early on – but the beginnings of panic were filtering into his veins and he'd feel better with her by his side._

" _Natasha." He shook her blanketed shoulder, only to have the blanket collapse under his hand, falling to the bed as if there had never been a body beneath it._

_Clint drew back his hand as if he'd just found a rattle snake in the bed, panic starting to weave in a little thicker. Slowly, he reached for the blanket, jerking it back and casting it to the foot of the bed._

_The bed was empty._

" _Natasha…"_

" _Now I will show you how I will_ _ **destroy**_ _it." The words were whispered at his shoulder in that low, silky voice Clint had come to hate with every piece of his soul._

_He whirled, swinging his fist into a hard cross that met nothing but air._

_He looked around wildly, heart pounding, but he was alone._

_For a moment, the only sound he heard was his own harsh panting._

_Then…_

" _CLINT!"_

_Her scream had him bolting for the door without a processed thought. He tore into the hallway, sprinting down the short distance to the living area._

" _NAT!"_

" _CLINT!" she screamed again, but it was outside now. Clint all but dove for the front door, ripping it open just as a gut-wrenching scream broke the stillness of the black night._

_Clint cleared the five front porch stairs in a single leap, feet sinking into the sand and then kicking it up as he spun, searching the darkness for her._

" _NATASHA!" he yelled, only to be answered by another blood curdling scream._

_He turned towards its source and took off in a sprint._

_He hit the beach at a dead run, arms pumping and lungs burning. He skidded to a halt, looking one way – seeing nothing – and spinning to look the other._

_Then he saw her._

_She was on the ground, straddled by a man in all black, being beaten and brutalized._

_Rage blacked out his vision and he ran. He hit her attacker at a full sprint, and with all the precision of an all-star linebacker making a game-winning tackle._

_The hit carried them both rolling into the sand. They grappled brutally, exchanged blows viciously, and drew blood ruthlessly._

_But when he truly saw black, as he was right now, Clint couldn't be bested._

_He had his opponent pinned in less than 90 seconds._

_He ripped the man's hood back, exposing his shadowed face._

_The entire world around him went dead silent – not even the waves crashed, not even his heart beat._

_It was him._

_He was staring down at himself. His doppelgänger's eyes were dark and vicious, but they were_ _**his** _ _. The smirk was cruel and twisted, but it was_ _**his** _ _._

_Clint felt his jaw go slack as he stared, eyes wide and horrified._

" _Look what you did…" His other self nodded towards where he'd last seen Natasha._

_Clint's eyes strayed to her immediately._

_She was broken in a way he'd never seen. She was bleeding from more places than she wasn't and bruised everywhere else. Her clothes were in disarray and her hair a knotted mess around her head. Her usually sharp green gaze was practically catatonic. If he hadn't been able to see her chest rise and fall, he'd have been sure she was dead._

" _You do good work when you set your mind to it."_

_Clint heard his twin speak, but didn't look at him. He couldn't pull his eyes from Natasha._

_He'd done this._

" _You, who she holds most dear, will be her undoing and her end."_

_Loki's words floated on the wind like a whisper but Clint knew that even if he looked, the god would be nowhere in sight._

_Abruptly, Natasha blinked, eyes focusing on his._

" _Clint…please…"_

" _Natasha…" He scrambled away from the man he held subdued and went to her side, but she flinched away. "Natasha…" he tried again, softer this time._

" _Why?" she asked through cracked and bleeding lips, her face twisted in pain. "How could you?"_

" _I…" Clint shook his head. He had done this, hadn't he? He had wanted this? He had enjoyed it just as Loki had demanded of him._

_If that were true, why did he feel like his heart was being torn from his chest?_

" _How could you?" she asked again, weaker this time. That was when he saw the knife, the one she'd given him, buried to the hilt in her gut. He tried to reach for it, but found his arms had become like lead. He couldn't move no matter how hard he tried._

" _Help me, Clint," she pleaded brokenly._

_He strained against whatever was holding him captive, but couldn't break free._

" _Why won't you help me?" she asked in a soft whisper even as her eyes slid shut._

" _No...no, no, no…Natasha! Open your eyes! NATASHA!"_

_Clint closed his eyes and threw every ounce of strength he had into breaking free. And just like that…it worked. He nearly fell forward due to the sudden lack of restraint, but caught himself, eyes snapping open._

_His hand moved forward but dug into nothing but sand._

_Natasha was gone._

_He searched the area frantically, opening his mouth to call her name._

_But before he could make a sound another shout rose from somewhere behind him. It was a shout of pain and shock. A shout that was familiar and that belonged to a voice he'd know anywhere._

_Phil._

_He whirled in time to see Phil falling to the ground, a bleeding wound painting his chest red._

" _NO!" he screamed as he surged to his feet and ran towards him. A foot away he slammed to a halt when he ran headlong into some sort of invisible wall. It was like a force field keeping him at bay, and no matter how hard he kicked it, punched it, or threw his body against it, he couldn't break through._

_Finally, he went to his knees, eyes wide as he watched Phil struggle to breath._

" _Phil!"_

 _His handler's eyes rose to meet his, but nowhere was the warmth and affection that had_ _**always** _ _been present over the last nearly nine years. Instead there was nothing but contempt and anger._

" _You let this happen."_

" _Phil…"_

" _You led him here!"_

_Clint didn't have a defense. It was true._

" _You did this, Clint! You killed me!"_

_He had._

" _And you killed her!"_

_He knew without looking, that Natasha's body was there again, resting on the sand next to him, bloody and broken._

" _You are poison, Clint…you always have been. I just wish I'd seen it before it got me killed."_

_Clint shook his head. It was all true. He'd not-so-secretly believed it for as long as he could remember. People he cared about, they got hurt._

_But hearing Phil say it – Phil who he'd come to count on so completely. He couldn't take it. Not from him._

" _My greatest regret," Phil glared at him, "is_ _ **you**_ _."_

_Clint closed his eyes and dropped his head, feeling his shoulders bow under the weight of Phil's scathing words._

" _I will break you and leave you shattered on the ground."_

_Clint kept his eyes closed as the words floated around him, poisoning the air. It wasn't until an iron grip – stronger than anything he'd ever felt before – latched onto his shoulder that his eyes snapped open. He caught a glimpse of green and gold and then he was landing hard on his back._

_Loki loomed over him._

" _Show me what you fear," the god hissed just as he reached to take Clint's head in his hands._

 _Then there was nothing but all consuming_ _**pain.** _

* * *

Clint jackknifed with a desperate gasp, like a diver surfacing after too long without oxygen. He blinked down the sights of his Desert Eagle and searched the room.

Loki was here. He could feel him. _Couldn't he?_

"Clint?"

The bed shifted behind him and a hand ghosted over his shoulder without touching it. She knew better, especially when he was armed.

Clint blinked, trying to sift through all the raging instincts screaming at him – trying to sort out what was genuine and what was a product of the dream.

"Hey? You with me?"

Clint continued to stare down the length of his gun, frowning slightly when he noticed the gun shaking. Only it wasn't the gun. It was his hand.

"God, you're shaking. Clint, snap out of it and talk to me!" Her voice had grown sharper, an unfamiliar undercurrent of fear making itself known.

The previously withheld hand landed on his shoulder, shaking him roughly.

He dropped the gun like it was red hot, and watched it fall harmlessly to the blanket. He turned, keeping his back to her as he put his feet on the cool hardwood of the floor.

"Clint, you're scaring me here."

He swallowed thickly, trying to force moisture into his dry throat so he could speak.

"I'm fine."

The hand on his shoulder tightened, her fingernails digging into his skin.

"Don't pull that bullshit with me. _Talk to me_." Even as she spoke she moved, climbing over the bed and going to her knees in front of him.

He shook his head.

"It was just a dream." He barely believed _himself_ and wasn't all that surprised when she didn't buy it either.

"Bullshit it was just a dream. Did you remember something?"

He shook his head.

"No." It wasn't a complete lie. The dream had been a twisted version of what might have been – or what _was_ in Phil's case. The only part linked to real memory had been Loki's words. He'd never forgotten those…so really he hadn't _remembered_ anything. It was a technicality, a weak one, but it was the only defense he had.

"Then what was it about?"

Clint just shook his head, reaching to rub his eyes. God, his head hurt. His head always hurt now. Maybe Loki had fucked something up for real in there, no matter what the scans had shown.

"Clint, don't do this, okay? Don't try and carry this by yourself. We're in this together."

But they weren't. Not really. Because she didn't know the whole story. She didn't know because he was lying to her.

"Talk to me," she demanded firmly, but at the same time with such a gentle warmth that he nearly buckled.

He raised his gaze to meet hers, the sincerity in her eyes twisting his heart.

He opened his mouth, hesitated, and then went on,

"It was just a dream," he said again. "About the footage I watched…about Loki killing him."

Another half-truth. He couldn't tell her the rest though. Because he wasn't supposed to remember what Loki had said to him, or what Loki had made him want to do to her.

Her gaze softened, as it always did when he mentioned Phil – or didn't mention him as the case tended to be. He hadn't been able to bring himself to say Phil's name since that day outside Fury's office when he'd spit undeserved venom at her.

Before she could offer empty comforts that he didn't want, he stood, moving past her.

"Go back to sleep. I'm fine."

"Where are you going?" she asked, voice tense and poorly masking her worry, as he made his way to the bedroom door.

He didn't look back as he walked out.

"For a run."

He heard her stand and follow him, but he ignored her.

Instead he headed through the house and to the front door as if she wasn't even there.

Thunder rumbled as he hit the sand and kicked into a run, ignoring the immediate flair of pain in his leg and ankle. When he reached the water front a few moments later, he headed up the beach, pushing himself faster.

She was still trying to follow.

He ran faster.

She was fast, damn fast…but he was faster. Even his injuries wouldn't slow him down. He wouldn't let them. Pain only existed if you acknowledged it. It only slowed you down if you cared about it.

It didn't take long before she started to fall behind.

He still pushed himself harder, until he could barely even sense her presence behind him on the beach anymore.

When the first drops fell, he ignored them.

When those drops turned into a steady rain, he just kept going.

When that rain turned into a downpour, he just pushed himself harder.

Running with broken ribs was painful, dangerous if any of them were displaced. _Sprinting_ with broken ribs was like stabbing yourself over and over with a hot poker. And breathing was like getting hit in the chest with a crowbar.

But he didn't stop.

He embraced the pain.

She was gone now, not even a spot in the distance. Maybe she'd still try to catch up, maybe she'd just wait for him to come back. Either way, he'd left her behind. Guilt swept through him, but after lying to her about Loki for days now, he'd gotten good at ignoring it.

He kept running until his bad leg finally gave out, sending him tumbling into an ungraceful sprawl that he barely managed to turn into a _semi_ -graceful roll that mostly protected his ribs. He stopped his momentum and came to his hands and knees, forehead pressed into the wet sand. For a moment he just let the rain beat down on him, plastering his shirt to his body and his hair to his head. The waves seemed to crash in time with the rolling thunder and even through his closed eyelids he saw lightning split the sky.

He hated the rain – so _goddamned much_. He hated the memories it brought. He hated the pain those memories awakened.

But right now. He embraced it. He deserved it.

" _I will break you and leave you shattered on the ground."_ The memory of Loki's words haunted him, bringing fresh anger bubbling to the surface.

He sat up abruptly, flinging fistfuls of sand into the night with a guttural yell.

"You goddamned bastard!" he shouted at the sky. "Why didn't you just _kill me?"_

No answer was forthcoming, but he hadn't expected it to be. He knew the answer anyway. Loki had needed him. He needed him to do what he did best – _kill_.

And he had. He'd nearly killed the only woman he'd ever let himself truly care about, a woman who owned him, heart and soul. He _had_ killed the man that had saved that soul to begin with. He'd brought Phil's death. He'd brought _Todd's_ death and countless others.

Because he was weak.

Clint stood, grim determination taking root. He started back towards their hidden safe house, slowly at first and then faster. Soon he was running again, moving through the rain at a pace that made his legs burn, his ankle throb and his lungs ache. That sent knives of pain through his chest as his broken ribs protested.

But he didn't stop, not when the pain threatened to force him to listen, not when he blew past Natasha on the beach, leaving her scrambling to about-face and chase after him again.

He didn't stop until he hit the front porch.

He slammed his way into the house and made for his bow and quiver. He didn't even bother grabbing the entire quiver, he just snatched a handful of arrows and jerked them free, sending the quiver crashing to the ground and scattering the remaining arrows in a wide arc.

He ignored it and headed back the way he'd come. When he hit the sand, he knelt, slamming the arrows tip first into the soft ground – save one. He set that one in place and drew the bow string back to his cheek.

It hurt. He'd done this too much over the last several days. He hadn't given his body time to heal from Loki's abuse and the battle that followed.

But he forced himself to hold the pose, embracing the pain.

He deserved it.

Only when his arms started to shake, with the rain still pouring down around him, did he finally let the arrow fly.

When it hit, dead center in the trunk of a nearby palm tree, it wasn't Loki's face he pictured. The anger and hate…it had shifted.

Because now the face he saw…

It was his own.

* * *

Natasha ignored the driving rain as she raced back up the beach, back the way she'd come just minutes ago. She'd been waiting for this, waiting for Clint to snap. His hold on his emotions had been white knuckled since he'd found out about Phil, his grasp on his control had grown more tenuous as the days passed. Their arrival at their Southern California safe house should have brought peace, but instead, in the last 48 hours, things just seemed to have gotten worse.

She made it back to their sandy front yard in time to see him release an arrow towards a tree, a look of such complete and utter _hate_ on his face that she knew exactly who he was picturing. There was only one person Clint could hate with that much passion.

Himself.

He snatched another arrow out of his stockpile in the sand and drew his bow again, letting it fly with a vicious growl.

Something was wrong, _more_ wrong than it had been lately. That dream had more to it than he was admitting. That much was _obvious._ She had thought last night was the worst of it. He'd woken after only a couple of hours in a panicked, cold sweat. He'd put himself through punishing rounds of archery until he couldn't even draw his bow anymore or keep a grip on the string with his fingers.

But then, after a few hours had passed, he'd seemed to find some semblance of calm.

He'd started talking to her again, he tried to eat, even went swimming with her when she asked.

She'd thought that maybe, just maybe, he'd find some kind of peace here.

She saw now, that it had just been the tip of the iceberg. The _really_ dangerous, devastating part of this mess had still been hidden beneath the surface.

She made her way slowly towards him, pausing when he drew another arrow and waiting until he let it loose before continuing her approach.

"Clint," she called firmly.

He didn't acknowledge her, instead he reached to his stockpile in the sand and grabbed another arrow.

"Clint," she tried again, throwing some sternness into her tone.

He drew the bow string back to his cheek and held it in place.

"Go inside," he commanded lowly, so low that she barely heard him over the rain.

"No." Her stubborn refusal didn't even draw his eye. He just stayed there, as unmoving as a stone statue, bow drawn, eyes down range at the tree already littered with arrows.

"Go inside." His voice dropped even lower, an undercurrent of anger simmering below the surface.

She came closer, matching his hardening tone with a firmness in her own.

"No."

His arms quaked. He still held the string taut.

"I'm not leaving you alone," she insisted. Not like this. Dan's last piece of advice to her echoed through her head.

" _Be there_."

Just when she thought his arms couldn't hold the tension anymore and that his fingers were just going to give out, he released the arrow. It had barely even cleared his bow before he was standing, whirling to face her.

"Don't you get it yet?" he spat darkly. "Alone is what I _want_!" He stalked a step closer, but only one. "I don't want you out here, Natasha."

" _He's going to tell you to leave, and knowing Barton, he's going to do everything in his power to try and drive you away."_

She shook her head in refusal.

" _Be there."_

"You're not alone Clint, I'm not leaving you." Maybe if she said it enough times, if she was stubborn enough, he'd believe it.

He growled a sound that was somewhere between rage and frustration.

"But I _am_ alone!" he shouted, making her blink in shock. Clint never shouted. When he was angry, he dropped his voice, made himself sound even more lethal and dark. He didn't need to shout to strike terror. That he was doing it now, it only told her that things were even worse than they seemed. His control was unraveling by the second.

"I'm so goddamned alone there's not a soul within _miles!"_ He gestured around him with a desperate sort of sarcasm.

" _He's going to be hurting, and he's going to take the pain out on you."_

"I'm right here, Clint," she assured firmly, venturing slowly closer. He matched her advance with his own retreat.

"You're here, but you're not _here_ , Natasha." He tapped the tip of his bow roughly against his own temple. "And you could never understand," he scoffed, "I thank _God_ that you could never understand."

She scowled, wiping her wet hair out of her eyes.

"You think I don't get it? _I get it_ , Clint. Better than anyone. You know that."

He shook his head.

"It's not the same."

"The hell it's not."

"It's _not_."

"Why?" she demanded sharply.

"Because what happened to you, it wasn't your fault!"

Natasha wanted to slap him, or punch him, or strangle him. She settled for pressing her hands to her own temples in frustration.

"And what happened to you wasn't _yours!_ " she yelled. Why couldn't he just _accept_ that? Why did he have to take the entire weight of the world on his shoulders? She wanted to take whoever had told him once upon a time that all that was wrong in the world was _his fault_ and dismember them. She had a distinct feeling that culprit's name was Barney fucking Barton.

"Go back inside." His voice was made of ice and stone, nothing but sharp points and hard edges.

She saw it then, the line he was drawing, it was written in that hard gaze.

_You walk away, or I will._

She stared at him, hardly believing he was throwing down an ultimatum. She thought for sure it was a bluff. That he was trying to bully her into giving him what he wanted.

But Clint hadn't done 'alone' well in a very long time. He'd admitted that fact a more than once over the years. She had to believe that somewhere inside, he remembered that. And that he didn't really want her to leave.

" _Be there."_

So she stayed stubbornly immobile, staring at him defiantly through the rain.

She watched his jaw clench, saw walls slam into place in his expression, and then could only stare as he turned away from her. He leaned to snatch his stock of arrows from the ground and then headed to the tree.

"Clint…" she followed warily. He yanked his arrows free in one movement, their grouping was _that_ close together. He added them to the rest and then started back towards the beach without even looking at her.

"Clint!" she called, jogging after him.

He turned, pinning her with a look so hard that she froze in place. He'd never, not even when he'd been sighting down an arrow to kill her, looked at her like that.

"Do _not_ follow me." Never in her life had she heard a man be able to put such _anger_ and _force_ into such quietly spoken words. And she had known some terrible, terrifying men.

When he turned away again and started walking, she didn't follow.

She stood, frozen in place for several minutes, watching him disappear down the beach.

Only when the rain started to let up – it never rained long in Southern California when it bothered to rain at all – did she move. She numbly moved back to the house and sank down on to the front porch steps.

Something wasn't _right_. Something _more_ than just losing Phil. This, tonight, this wasn't the withdrawn disassociation she'd come to expect. This was anger. This was _rage_.

At himself.

She frowned, pieces starting to fall into place as she thought back over the last several days since he'd woken up. Small contradictions, indicators, easily missed in the moment in light of the war they'd been fighting. The zoning out. The PTSD-like symptoms.

It hit her like a freight train then, and she _knew._

He remembered.

She stood, ready to take off after him and call him on all the _bullshit_. To force him to _confront_ what Loki had done to him once and for all. To _tell_ her so that she could _help him_.

She only made it a few steps before she stopped herself, some of the righteous, _hurt_ anger draining out of her.

Not so long ago, _she'd_ been the liar. He had forgiven her, had let it go. He'd let it go because it had been a lie born of necessity, had been unavoidable.

She found herself realizing now that the same was true here.

If Clint was lying about this, about something _this big_ , then it meant he _needed_ to. Maybe it was because he couldn't face it. Maybe he didn't want to talk about it. Maybe he just needed, right now, to pretend he _didn't_ remember.

Maybe he needed the lie to keep going. Maybe, right now, the lie was a kind of armor when every other defense had been stripped away.

She backed up, sinking heavily back onto the porch steps.

It hurt, being lied to. But Natasha had grown used to pain.

If this is what he needed…if the lie _helped_ him in some way…

She'd let him have it.

She'd do as Dan had told her and she'd _be there_. She'd wait, as patiently as she could…as patiently as he _needed_ her to. When he was ready to tell the truth, she'd be ready to listen…and to forgive. Because no matter what he'd done, no matter what lies he told, she would never walk away.

He was hers. She was his.

No matter what.

That's just the way this shit worked.

* * *

_6 hours later…_

Clint approached the front porch slowly, eyes pinned on the figure draped against the front step railing. Her eyes were closed, her head tilted against the railing post, arms wrapped around her knees where they were bent in front of her.

Her hair had been swept back from her face at some point, it fell now in wild waves long since dried from the rain.

Her eyes opened slowly as he approached and the calm in her expression did nothing to ease the trepidation he felt.

He'd been wrong to walk away. He'd been even more wrong to stay away for so long. But he'd needed space to breathe, to think. The dream had woken something in his soul, a restlessness. It had woken a desire he hadn't felt in a long time – the desire to _run_. Not just run down the beach, but run away. For the first time since he'd walked across that tarmac in Debrecen and agreed to Phil's offer to join SHIELD, he wanted to run. He wanted, more than anything, to leave every bit of it behind.

Every bit but her. She was the only thing he had left now, leaving her wasn't even a whisper of a thought in his mind. But walking away like that, staying gone, it had sent the exact opposite message. And she didn't deserve that.

She was just worried about him, he knew that. He'd disappeared on her with Loki. She'd want him in her sights as much as she wanted to be there as support. He would know – he felt the same way after what happened in Germany.

He watched her slowly stand and come down the steps to stand toe to toe with him. He met her gaze and waited. Her eyes shifted, visually scanning him. He knew she'd see the sweat still drying on his bare chest and face. She'd see the tremble in his hands from firing his bow for too long. She'd see the dried blood from the cuts the bow string had left on his fingers. She'd hear the way his breathing wasn't quite even because his ribs had resorted to drastic measures to get his attention.

Her eyes rose back to his but she still didn't say a word.

Clint swallowed and wet his lips with his tongue.

"I'm sorry."

She nodded slightly, gave him one last once over with her eyes and then turned on her heel. She scaled the porch stairs and went into the house without even glancing back to see if he'd follow.

He did.

By the time he'd made it through the front door and closed it behind him, she was opening the first aid kit on the kitchen table. He rested his bow against the wall by the door and tossed his few surviving arrows to the floor next to it.

She glared him into a chair and with a gentleness contradictory to her stern expression she pulled his left hand up on to the table.

It was only as she started cleaning the cuts on his fingers that she finally spoke.

"Hours, Clint. You were gone for _hours._ I would slap the shit out of you for disappearing on me like that if you didn't look so damn beat to hell already."

The quiet comment had him fighting the urge to go find a mirror. He hadn't looked in one since the Brooklyn safe house before the funeral. He'd looked bruised and battered then, and his numerous bruises would have darkened by now. The fact that he looked bad enough that she _hadn't_ hit him outright for being such an ass suggested he looked about as bad as he felt.

For a moment he silently watched her clean the cuts on his fingers and carefully wrap them in gauze. He waited until she was tossing the few supplies she'd taken out back into the first aid kit before speaking.

"I shouldn't have taken off on you like that," he offered quietly.

She nodded and closed the first aid kit, refusing to meet his eyes. She started to turn away to return the kit to its spot under the kitchen sink but he caught her wrist.

"Natasha…"

The tone – like her name was a whispered prayer – got her, it always did. She clenched her jaw and let him pull her down into the other chair.

"I won't do it again." And he wouldn't. He'd walked away from her exactly one other time, when they fought and called it quits before Germany. It remained one of his most stinging regrets. He'd almost not gotten to her in time after that. He almost hadn't gotten a chance to make it right.

She nodded again and finally met his gaze.

He was gutted by the emotion in her eyes. She would never say it, but he could see it clearly in her eyes. She'd been afraid he wasn't coming back. She'd been afraid he'd leave her behind. It was exactly what he'd known his actions would cause, but seeing it staring back at him made his heart clench.

He reached out instinctively, tightening his hands around hers.

"I would _never_ leave you behind, Natasha. Not unless you wanted me to and maybe not even then."

The corner of her mouth quirked a little at the last part and he let his own lips turn up slightly before sobering.

"No matter how screwed up I am right now, it's still you and me. I swear, okay? I won't leave you."

He could see in her eyes that she believed him.

"And I won't leave _you_ , okay?" she replied quietly. "Wherever we go, whatever we decide to do…we do it together."

He nodded and released her hands, sitting back.

"I thought a lot about that while I was out there," he said. Her eyebrow quirked curiously. "I don't want to go back. I don't want to go back to SHIELD. I don't want to go back to the Avengers."

Surprise lit her gaze, and hidden beneath it was immediate understanding.

"Are you sure?" she asked seriously, not challenging him, not trying to talk him out of it. Just being there, being whatever he needed.

God, he loved this woman so damn much. Only 'love' never had and never could adequately describe the depth and power of what he felt for her. And after hearing Alexi proclaim his 'love' for her, Clint would never be able to bring himself to define what he felt in the same terms. What they had, it just _was_. It didn't need defining.

His mouth quirked warmly and he nodded.

"Everything that's happened. Loki…and," his throat tightened and he had to clear his throat before he could go on, "and everything he did…I don't think I want to be around those memories, don't want to risk them coming back." Then, to perpetuate the lie he was living, "I don't want to remember, Natasha."

But really, he didn't want to go back because he _did_ remember. And the thought of walking the halls of the Helicarrier, of passing the detention room where Phil had died, it made him sick. The thought of walking the streets of Manhattan again, where a battle had raged just days ago made him twitchy with something vaguely reminiscent of PTSD.

He'd been through a lot in his life. He'd lost everything at a very young age. Then he had been shuffled into an abusive – both violently and otherwise – orphanage. After running away, he had joined the circus and entered into apprenticeship with Jacques – who'd been more verbally abusive than violently, though he'd had his moments.

When he had been betrayed and nearly murdered by his own brother, it had been the beginning of the end for his time at Carson's. He'd been briefly apprenticed to a new mentor, who was in no way abusive but remained a dick all the same. Then had come his year in the U.S. Army, followed by a few months in military prison, a year as a contract assassin, and then nearly nine years as a SHIELD agent. His career _there_ had been peppered with both minor and life-threatening injuries. Through _all_ of it, he rolled with the punches – for the most part, at least. He'd managed to keep his head above water. To always keep fighting.

He'd met Phil and he'd found the strength to do more – to be _better_. To stop existing and start living again. To fight harder to be something more than he'd ever thought he could be.

With everything he'd been through in his life, a simple bout of alien mind control shouldn't even be front-page news. But it was. It was the goddamned headline and he couldn't find a way to cope.

And really, he supposed – one way or the other – it all came down to control. Loki had stolen his control. And when he'd managed to retain a tiny fingertip grasp on a tendril of it, Loki had violently ripped it away.

He'd only felt completely out of control three times in his life before Loki. Once, on his seventh birthday when Phillip Jacobs had come into the bunkroom and over to his bed in the middle of the night for the first time. He'd taken that control back a couple of weeks later when he fought back, broke the bastard's nose, and started sleeping in the rafters of the barn.

The second time he'd been 15 and had been lying in the mud, rain pouring down on him, with a knife sticking out of his chest. Barney's betrayal had ripped away the very foundation of Clint's entire life up to that point. In those dark, terrifying moments before Buck came to his aid, his entire world unraveled. He'd realized that there was _nothing_ he could control in that moment, not if his brother loved or hated him, not if he'd ever see Barney again, not even if he would live or die. When he'd woken in the hospital, control over himself and his situation became something like an obsession.

The third time, he'd been tied to a chair in Uzbekistan, blindfolded and gagged, undergoing vicious torture. He'd flirted with PTSD after that, had been convinced that they'd taken every ounce of control from him and he hadn't been able to handle it. How could he, when he'd spent every day since he was 15 keeping control in a white-knuckled grip? Phil had been the one to show him that just by _surviving_ , by being able to take what they dealt out, he had held onto some small shred of control.

But this was different. Loki hadn't just taken away his free will, he'd _imposed_ _his own will_ on Clint. Loki had invaded his mind and subjected him to what equated to mental torture beyond anything he'd ever thought was possible. Maybe that was the difference. Loki had been _in_ his head. There had been no escape. Clint had been helpless to fight him off – though he'd tried, _God_ he'd tried. He'd paid for that resistance too.

And even though he had control of himself and his mind again, he still found himself doing mental checks _all the time_ to make sure Loki was really gone, that he hadn't come back.

Going back, it would only reinvigorate the memories.

And he wasn't exactly lying. He _didn't_ want to remember. All he wanted to do was _forget_.

He'd promised Phil he wouldn't go backwards, that he'd keep fighting…but he couldn't. He didn't have it in him to fight anymore.

"If that's what you want, we won't go back," Natasha's calm acceptance drew his mind back to the moment. "We'll find somewhere far away and get some real distance."

With her on board, he suddenly had the urge to just _go_ , right now. To just grab their stuff and head for the nearest border or airport.

"Then let's go," he said suddenly, "right now. Let's get our stuff and just _go_."

She looked slightly startled by his abrupt suggestion, but recovered quickly.

"Clint, we just got here…"

"Here is as good as anywhere else, isn't it? Come on, we could go anywhere, start over. Be anybody we want to be."

He could leave Clint Barton behind for good and maybe he could leave everything else behind too. Maybe he could finally get a clean slate and if he told himself he wasn't Clint Barton anymore, maybe he could really stop being him. And maybe he could erase all the memories that went with him.

It sounded so goddamned appealing.

It was also running. It was going backwards. You didn't get more backwards than erasing who you are. He'd promised Phil he wouldn't go back…but he told himself that maybe Phil would understand.

"You're still healing," Natasha was reasoning, drawing his attention back once again, "give it a few days, let your body recover. Then we'll go."

A few days…could he survive as Clint Barton for a few more days?

He met her gaze and saw the worry there. If he pushed it too hard, her concern would grow. She'd start to wonder why he was so anxious to run.

He could survive a few more days.

So he nodded.

* * *

_End of Chapter 15_

_Yikes! Clint's reacting in an extreme here, I recognize that. But given the sheer amount of emotional trauma he's faced and the amount of guilt he's drowning in, not to mention the dark cloud of grief that is hovering...extreme is almost expected. He wants to run, to try and forget it ALL. And really, who can blame him...man, I just want to hug him._

_And Nat figured it out! Of course she did! She knows he's lying! But HE doesn't know that she knows! And it takes him SIX months to confess. Bless that woman, she is more patient than I would have been._

_Only 2 chapters left people! Then you get to find out what the next story is! Tomorrow we'll meet back for the next chapter and until then, you know what I want...I want you to go down to that little review box and drop me a line, or a paragraph, or a novel, hell, i'd take just a word ;) And in return, here's a preview :D_

* * *

_"I just don't want to let him down again, Natasha."_

_"How would you be letting him down? Huh? How?" she asked gently._

_"Being an Avenger – it was all he ever wanted for me. When he read me in on my part in the Initiative a few months ago, it was written all over his face. He wanted me to finally be the hero, Nat. How can I not do that for him now?"_


	16. I've Had Enough, Now I'm So Fed Up

_Disclaimer: I do not own "The Avengers" or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works. I do not claim any of the directly quoted lines from "The Avengers" as my own, they belong to Marvel and the writers._ _The cover art came from a google search with the original source being pinterest where it was credited to Anthony Genuardi._

_Author's Note: While I embrace_ **_constructive_ ** _criticism, remember this old saying if you choose to leave a review "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all"_

* * *

_Alrighty, thanks to all who reviewed Chapter 16:_ **Isi7140, im-great-at-boats, RoS13, donttouchlola447, and RandominatorOwl**

_You can guess the song up until I tell you what it is in the final chapter!_

_As usual, thank you to my wonderful betas_ **Kylen** _and_ **JRBarton _._** _Who knows where i'd be without them :)_

 

_Now, on we go!_

* * *

_Last time in The Untold Stories:_

_A few days…could he survive as Clint Barton for a few more days?_

_He met her gaze and saw the worry there. If he pushed it too hard, her concern would grow. She'd start to wonder why he was so anxious to run._

_He could survive a few more days._

_So he nodded._

* * *

_The true soldier fights not because he hates what is in front of him, but because he loves what is behind him._   
**_G.K. Chesterton_ **

* * *

_April 21, 2012_  
_1:17am  
_ _Undisclosed Safe House, Southern California_

* * *

_Clint walked slowly down the hall, eyes straying left to right as he passed each and every cell door. Beyond the bars was nothing but inky blackness, but if he focused hard enough, he could hear overlapping voices and almost see something playing like a broken movie in the darkness._

_Where the hell was he? It seemed familiar, like he'd been here before._

" _This is your mind, Clint."_

_Clint pulled to a startled stop, gaze flying out ahead of him to see Phil standing there staring back at him._

" _My mind?" He remembered now. He'd been here before, with Loki. The thought had him shooting around an anxious glance, sure he was going to see the god lurking in the shadows with that silky, poisonous smile of his._

" _He's not here, Clint. He's gone." Phil's calm, warm assurance drew Clint's gaze back to his handler._

" _So are you," Clint pointed out quietly._

_Phil's lips quirked into a sad smile._

" _I know. This isn't really me, Clint."_

_Even though he'd already known that, hearing it still drove a knife into Clint's heart. He cleared his throat and watched Phil run his hand across the bars of one of the cell doors._

" _If it's not really you, what is it? A hallucination? A memory?"_

_Phil shrugged, smiling._

" _It's exactly what you need it to be. Did you really think that dying would erase me? I've been the voice over your comm for almost nine years, Clint. Doesn't it make sense that your mind would have some version of me stored away for a rainy day?"_

_Clint arched an eyebrow. That made sense, he supposed, albeit in a weird way._

_Phil removed his touch from the cell door he'd been inspecting._

" _A prison…what do you think that says about you? Have you thought about it?"_

" _I think we both know what it says," Clint replied slowly, watching Phil wander closer. "And I don't think either of us is all that surprised by it."_

_Phil faced him again, a sad smile turning up the corner of his mouth._

" _No, I guess not."_

_For a moment Clint felt so_ _**right** _ _again. It felt normal, talking to Phil, even if it wasn't really Phil. It was a version of him, a version Clint's mind had apparently kept protected. He felt himself start to smile, only to have it fade when he remembered that this wasn't real, and there was no way it would last._

" _It's okay, Clint." Phil moved closer, expression warm and full of affection. "Just because it's not real, doesn't mean you can't enjoy it. Besides, it's not completely a figment of your imagination. Some part of me will always live in you, that's how families work."_

" _I'd rather you just lived for real."_

_Phil's hand reached out and gripped the back of Clint's neck._

" _I know. And I'm sorry. But I can't change that and neither can you…but you can change your future."_

_Clint frowned._

" _What do you mean?"_

" _You're running, Clint."_

_Clint cut his gaze away. Phil tightened the grip on his neck, drawing his gaze back._

" _You made me a promise, kid, and last I checked you took your promises pretty damn seriously."_

_Clint shook his head._

" _I can't go back. I can't…I can't even deal with what happened to_ _ **you**_ _. How am I supposed to be at SHIELD without you? I won't be able to keep that door shut and I know, more than I know anything, that I won't survive opening it. Losing you, it's gonna be the end of me, Phil."_

_Phil's smile was full of such warmth and understanding and genuine affection that Clint's heart_ _**ached** _ _._

" _Clint, you have_ _ **always**_ _been stronger than you believed. Not only are you gonna survive losing me, but you're gonna become someone greater than you can even imagine. You're the strongest person I've ever known, and for_ _ **as long as**_ _I've known you, you've never seen that. See it now, Clint. Go back. Be strong. Be an Avenger and be the hero of your story."_

" _I'm no hero."_

_Phil's smile turned a little sad and he withdrew his hand from Clint's neck._

" _One day, kid, you're gonna see you like the rest of the world sees you. Like I see you. Like Natasha sees you. One day, you're gonna see yourself as you really are…and then you'll know."_

" _Know what?"_

_Phil just smiled and backed away._

" _I can't ruin the ending, now can I?"_

_Clint felt panic seep in as Phil continued to back away._

" _Don't go."_

_Phil paused, expression turning serious._

" _I'd never leave you, Clint. I will_ _ **always**_ _be here for you, one way or another."_

" _I want to stay here, with you."_

_Phil chuckled and continued to back away._

" _I wish you could. I wish it was really me here with you now. But it's not…so really, what would you be staying for?"_

_Clint knew that was a fair point. But even so, watching Phil walk away was gutting._

" _Go back, Clint. Be an Avenger. Be everything you were meant to be."_

_Clint nodded and watched Phil stop at a distant cell door, saw him smile and pull it open. He turned back to look at Clint though, instead of stepping in._

" _I'll be here, whenever you need me. But if you ever remember one thing I've told you, remember this. You are_ _ **strong**_ _, Clint. Don't let weakness become an excuse."_

_Then Phil stepped through the cell door and disappeared. Distantly, Clint heard the sounds of laughter before the door shut and the hallway fell silent again. Clint started slowly towards the door Phil had chosen. After a few steps he moved faster, soon he was running. He skidded to a stop at the door and looked into the inky darkness, straining to see what was inside._

_He could see it, just barely, flashes like a broken movie._

_Coney Island._

_Clint watched the flashes, drinking in the memories. For a day that had started off rocky, that one had sure as hell turned into one of the better days in his life._

_He closed his eyes and leaned his head forward until his forehead hit the bar._

* * *

Clint opened his eyes calmly and without the surge of panic that had come to be expected over the past several nights.

A dream.

Of course it had been a dream.

He sat up slowly, turning to put his feet on the floor. Natasha shifted behind him but didn't wake. Clint leaned forward, placing his hand over the spot Phil had gripped on his neck. He closed his eyes and imagined the warmth of his friend's hand.

Sudden and overwhelming sorrow started to bubble inside him and he snapped his eyes open, standing abruptly.

He couldn't open that door. No matter how strong Phil believed he was, he wasn't ready. Not now, maybe not for a long time. Maybe not ever.

He headed for the bedroom door, pausing when the sheets rustled behind him.

"Clint?"

"Can't sleep," he whispered. "I'm okay, go back to sleep."

He heard her shift, watched her push herself to sitting to regard him through the darkness.

"You sure?"

He opened his mouth to tell her 'yes', that he was fine. That she could go back to sleep. But then, the sight of her sitting there with sleep tousled hair, wearing a black tank and a pair of his boxers changed his mind. He suddenly just wanted to be around her, to have her presence surrounding him, driving away the sadness and offering comfort that only she could.

"I'm gonna make some coffee," he told her quietly, "want some?"

Her smile was warm and relieved and impossible to miss.

"Sure."

* * *

Natasha curled her legs underneath her on the couch and cradled her steaming cup of coffee in her hands. She blew on it gently as she watched Clint sink onto the couch next to her, his own coffee mug balanced easily in one hand – the liquid barely even rippling despite his jostling movements due to his steady hands.

For several long moments they sat in silence, listening to the sounds of the ocean through the open windows. Natasha waited patiently. He'd invited her to join him, she wouldn't make him regret that. Either they'd talk or they wouldn't. Being with him, offering silent companionship would be enough for now.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, but confident.

"I want to go back."

Natasha blinked. Back?

"A couple of days ago you said…"

"I know what I said," he swallowed and cleared his throat. He turned slightly so he could meet her eyes, "but it's just getting worse. Running farther won't make it any better." There was emotion in his voice, emotion he'd been keeping fiercely guarded over the last few days. But even though she could _hear_ it, his expression was still resolutely stoic and the walls in his gaze were going up before her eyes.

"What changed?" she asked quietly. It didn't feel right. It was a full 180 from what he'd insisted on two days ago. Something had happened, some shift that she didn't know about.

Clint sighed.

"I know it doesn't make sense. I know a couple of days ago I said I wanted to go…but I can't do that, not anymore."

Natasha lowered her coffee mug, balancing it on her knee. She was still confused. His words, they didn't match his eyes. Where his voice was laced with conviction, his eyes spoke of contradiction. He didn't want to go back, with all his heart he wanted to run the opposite direction. She could see it. Even if he'd never admit it, going back to face those memories he was denying absolutely terrified him.

"Why? It's what you want, I can see it in your eyes. I don't understand what changed."

Something in his gaze shifted and for a moment she thought she had him, that he'd give in and just _confess_ so that she would understand. Just as quickly, though, the look faded and then an emotion that looked something like heartbreak pushed to the forefront in his eyes.

"I made him a promise, Natasha."

And that was when Natasha knew he wouldn't be swayed. Clint had tied this into some sense of duty, of owing something to Phil. What was best for him – what _he_ wanted – be damned. She could only sit there, shoulders slowly drooping as he went on.

"I promised him I'd keep fighting, that I wouldn't go backward." He swallowed thickly and went on, "If I walk away now, I'd be breaking that promise…and I don't know if there would be any coming back."

She resisted the urge to say what she was thinking, that maybe 'no coming back' was better. He was right. It was getting worse. He barely slept and when he did it never lasted. The dreams were worse than they'd ever been. He had to physically force himself to eat. There were moments when anger seemed to bleed from his every pore, but also moments when 'broken' was the only word she thought could accurately describe him.

Clint was putting everything he had into … well, not into keeping it together, but into hiding that he had already broken into a million pieces. Hiding it from her, the rest of the world, and from himself.

Because just like he'd told her on the rooftop back in Brooklyn, he couldn't face it. He couldn't open that door.

She didn't know what to do. Going back? Back to New York and SHIELD, she was afraid now that it would only add fuel to the fire raging inside him. That being closer to the memory of what had happened would make things even worse.

SHIELD wasn't the only, or even the noblest, of places to do good in the world. And the Avengers weren't the only ones that could fight the bad guys. They could find another place to fight, a place that she wouldn't have to worry would bury him under the weight of heartbreak and memory.

"Clint," she started slowly, waiting for him to meet her gaze, "not going back isn't the same as going backwards. It's just moving forward in a different direction. 'Going backwards' was never about _where_ you were, not to Phil. It was about how you lived, the choices you made, and _why_ you made them. He wouldn't care where you were, New York or the North Pole, as long as you weren't letting the darkness win."

He stared at her, gaze searching hers as he absorbed her words. When he spoke again, his voice was a little shaken.

"I just don't want to let him down again, Natasha."

"How would you be letting him down? Huh? How?" she asked gently.

"Being an Avenger – it was all he ever wanted for me. When he read me in on my part in the Initiative a few months ago, it was written all over his face. He wanted me to finally be the hero, Nat. How can I not do that for him now?"

Natasha spoke then, reaching out to snag his wrist and squeeze it to be sure she had his undivided attention.

"The Avengers, and your part in it, was _never_ about him wanting you to be the hero, Clint. He never wanted you to _be_ the hero. He wanted you to see that you already _were one._ "

He looked away then, his insecurities rearing their ugly head right on cue.

"I'm no hero, Natasha. I never have been."

"That's bullshit."

Her blunt, forceful reply had his eyes snapping back to hers and she went on before he could argue.

"What the hell do you think you've been doing the last nine years for SHIELD? Playing patty cake?"

He scowled a little, then arched an eyebrow sarcastically.

"I've been _killing_ people."

She could understand how that wouldn't seem all that heroic to the outside observer. But she wasn't an outsider. She'd been in the trenches with Clint. She _knew_ him. She knew his heart and she knew, without a doubt, that 'hero' was the _only_ way to describe him.

"And how many lives have you _saved_ by killing those people? How many innocents have you protected with every arrow you fired? How many fates have you changed with every bullet? Huh? Do you have that number? Cuz I don't. The number is too damn big to tally."

He shook his head.

"That's not being a hero, Natasha. It was my _job_."

"Fine, it's your job. Does that change what it is? Does that change the outcome of your choices? What about Henri Moreau? I'm pretty sure when you tackled him and took a bullet to the back for him, he considered it pretty damn heroic."

He just shook his head again, stubbornly refusing to agree.

"Right, that was your _job_ and it doesn't count. What about all the choices you made that _weren't_ part of your job? Do _those_ count?"

_That_ got his eyes on hers again, and she could see that he already knew where she was going. And he couldn't deny it even though he wanted to.

"What about with me? What about when it was your _job_ to kill me? And instead, you saved my life. You _gave_ me a new life. Maybe that didn't mean as much to you, but to _me…"_ she shook her head and bit her lip. Thinking about that moment, all those years ago, about the choice he'd made. He'd had no reason to trust her, to believe that she could ever be anything more than what she'd been then. He'd almost lost everything because of that choice. "The number of times in my life I needed someone to save me, that I needed a _hero_ , come to exactly _one. That_ was it and when that moment came, _my_ hero was _you_."

His gaze softened and he sighed. Sensing she was gaining ground, she pressed on.

"And what about Phil? What about in Croatia, when you stepped in front of a bullet meant for him? Was _that_ your job? Because last I checked, instead of saving him you should have been going after the shooter. But you made a choice, just like you did in Paris. So don't you dare try to tell me you aren't a hero."

He remained silent in the face of her words, neither denying her claims nor agreeing with them. Natasha took a deep breath and let the point rest.

"If you want to go back," she allowed calmly, "we'll go back. But don't make it about you 'finally becoming a hero'. If we go back, it's with the understanding that you've got _nothing_ to prove to anyone but _yourself_."

He was quiet for a moment longer before he finally spoke, his words soft but sincere.

"Maybe it is _me_ I need to prove something to, then." Resolve hardened his eyes as he went on. "I need to prove to myself that I can do it, that I can be what he," the unspoken 'Phil' hung over them like a thick, choking fog, "wanted me to be. Maybe I need to prove that what happened with Loki – what he unleashed in me – I need to prove to myself that I can keep that contained. I need to prove that I can still beat the darkness. Maybe the place to do that is in New York with the Avengers, maybe it's not. But it seems as good a place as any to start."

Natasha nodded.

"Then we'll go back," she agreed. "But if we do, something's gotta change. She grabbed his hand and held it up between them, showing the shallow cuts on his fingers from drawing his bow too many times without his guards. The calluses he had could only do so much to protect him when he fired for that long. "You can't keep doing this to yourself. You can't keep punishing yourself. You're the only one that thinks you deserve it."

He lifted his chin a little in defiance and Natasha lowered her voice, throwing all her own worry and emotion into her tone.

"I can't watch you do this to yourself night after night…I get that you need it sometimes, but _I_ need you to find another way to cope. _Please_."

His expression lost its defiance in the face of her open sincerity and his eyes softened.

"I don't know what else to do," he admitted quietly.

"What you _do_ , is accept that maybe you don't need to be punished. That the only one that thinks you _do_ , is _you_. You accept that, and maybe you can find another way to get through the night."

He sighed and looked away.

"I'm just asking you to try, Clint, for my sake if not for yours." She was pleading now – she could hear it in her voice – but she couldn't bring herself to care.

"I'll do better," he promised finally, his tone sincere. "I won't let it go this far again."

She nodded, accepting the words for what they were, and sat back on the couch.

"So we go back," she sighed. "We move into the tower and try this whole Avenger thing."

He nodded.

"We give it a shot at least…see if we can make it work." He swallowed thickly and cleared his throat. "We see if it helps."

"And if it doesn't?" she asked quietly. Because she knew that it might not. That they could get there and things would only continue to get worse.

Clint rubbed a hand across his face wearily.

"Then we re-evaluate…if nothing changes, if nothing gets better…" he trailed off and shrugged one of his shoulders again.

She nodded.

"Okay."

She hoped that things got better – hell, she might even take worse. The limbo Clint was clinging to – the land of denial where he refused to acknowledge the effect Phil's death would have on him – wasn't healthy. She understood why he needed it, but she was increasingly worried that the longer he straddled the fence…the harder the landing on _either_ side would be.

* * *

_April 26, 2012_  
_10:47am  
_ _Stark Tower, Manhattan_

* * *

"Clint?"

Clint blinked slowly, shoulder leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. His eyes were fixed on some invisible spot on the pristinely cleaned floor of Natasha's new bedroom, but he wasn't really seeing it.

He was somewhere else, with someone else.

" _You have shown me your heart, Agent Barton."_

"Clint!"

He blinked again, lifting his gaze from the carpet and looking at the source of his snapped name.

Natasha was standing in the doorway of her closet – her unreasonably large walk-in closet that she'd never fill half of – staring at him.

He furrowed his brow slightly, confused by the worry in her gaze. How many times had she called his name? The question in his eyes must have been obvious, because she answered it.

"I said, do you want to go find your room when I'm done here?"

Clint didn't even have to think about it, for that reason, his answer was immediate and firm.

"No."

Natasha sighed, retrieved more clothes from her duffle and headed back into her closet.

Clint watched her pull open one of her weapons bags and pull out her Makarovs. She lifted them up and pressed them against the wall. Then she tilted her head slightly as if she were gauging the placement of a picture frame, and then nodded.

"Closets are good for weapon storage. Plenty of space," she commented absently.

Clint, despite his sour mood, found himself grinning. Maybe she _would_ fill the closet, probably to capacity, just not with silly things like _clothes_.

He glanced down at his own bags. One duffle of clothes and various belongings. One duffle full of weapons. A backpack full of books, one bow case and one quiver. His entire life, packed into a few SHIELD issued duffle bags and a worn backpack.

With a slight frown he nudged the bags into the corner with his boot. She tended to keep her room neat, and would probably eventually get annoyed with his stuff taking up floor space. But he had absolutely no desire to find the room Stark had assigned him, even less desire to 'unpack' and 'settle in.' Sleeping had become something of a bottom priority and when it became a necessity, Natasha's bed would be as good as any…that or he could always go back to old habits.

He caught sight of a vent cover in the ceiling. A little narrow, but he'd be able to fit.

"Ready?" Natasha's voice drew his attention back to the closet.

She was flipping off the light and pulling the door closed.

His response was to lead the way to the bedroom door. She fell in beside him and together they moved down the short hallway to the main living space of her assigned apartment. The furnished living room was nicer than anything Clint had ever personally lived in. The small kitchenette was just an added bonus, though Clint wasn't sure why Tony had bothered with that. The common floor had a full, practically professional-grade kitchen, a dining area, a living room and a home theater.

It was obvious that an attempt at forced 'team bonding' was in their immediate future.

Though, as far as Clint was concerned, 'team' was kind of a stretch for him. It would take more than thwarting one man's quest for world domination to convince him 'The Avengers' actually had what it took to be something real.

They exited Natasha's apartment and headed for the elevator.

"You think Fury has a mission for us?" she asked as they rode down to the garage level.

"That was the deal," Clint replied.

He'd better. Clint had endured ten days of 'recovery' – though those days had been anything _but_ restorative – and now that he was back in New York he was _itching_ to be back in the field. He needed the distraction.

Hopefully Fury held up his end and provided just that.

* * *

_End of Chapter 16_

_So I know that was shorter than most of the other chapters have been. But we had to get from last chapter to NEXT chapter so here we are :)_

_Did that dream in the beginning break your heart? It broke mine. Phil was SO much to him and even if Clint can't deal with his loss yet, at least he isn't going to run. Running would be the easy way, right? And Clint never does things the easy way lol_

_Tomorrow, this journey comes to an end. I can't believe we have marathon'd through almost 17 chapters already. So, meet me back here tomorrow for the conclusion! Until then, scroll on down, drop me a line, and enjoy your preview._

* * *

_"No. What I **think** is that he needed to do this on his own. You see it just as clearly as I do, Romanoff. He's drowning. He's needs to know that he can still do his job. He needs to know that he still has what it takes to be what he was before Loki. This mission, it has one purpose. To test him. Either he'll sink or he'll swim."_

_Natasha stared at him, eyes on fire._

_"And if he sinks?"_

_Fury stared at her, face resigned._

_"I have to believe that he won't. I **have** **to** **believe** that he is every bit the man Phil Coulson believed him to be."_


	17. Put My Life Back Together Right Now

_Disclaimer: I do not own "The Avengers" or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works. I do not claim any of the directly quoted lines from "The Avengers" as my own, they belong to Marvel and the writers._ _The cover art came from a google search with the original source being pinterest where it was credited to Anthony Genuardi._

_Author's Note: While I embrace_ **_constructive_ ** _criticism, remember this old saying if you choose to leave a review "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all"_

* * *

 

_Thank you to those who commented on Chapter 16:_ **Isi7140, Kali588, RandominatorOwl, RoS13, GoldOwl89, bandb4ev, Literally,** _and_ **Becca Tyler**

_The song that inspired the chapter titles for this story is "Not Afraid" by Eminem._

_Deepest thanks to_ **Kylen** _who acted as beta for me in this and also voiced Dan Wilson in this chapter. Further thanks to_ **JRBarton** _for acting as my second beta and a wonderful adviser when it came to sorting out the mess that was Avengers timeline lol._

_Trigger warning! There is a scene depicting child abuse in this chapter._

_So, without further ado...I give you the conclusion of The Untold Stories..._

* * *

_Last time in The Untold Stories:_

_"You think Fury has a mission for us?" she asked as they rode down to the garage level._

_"That was the deal," Clint replied._

_He'd better. Clint had endured ten days of 'recovery' – though those days had been anything **but** restorative – and now that he was back in New York he was **itching** to be back in the field. He needed the distraction._

_Hopefully Fury held up his end and provided just that._

* * *

_War must be, while we defend our lives against a destroyer who would devour all; but I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. I love only that which they defend._   
**_J.R.R. Tolkien_ **

* * *

_April 26, 2012_  
_2:23pm  
_ _SHEILD Quinjet_

* * *

Clint stared across the jet's passenger area, eyes pinned on a cargo strap that hadn't been secured properly. It had been swaying away from the side of the jet and then back, metal buckle clinking against the jet wall, since they had taken off. It was almost hypnotizing, watching that strap. And as he stared, as he listened to the metal clink against metal, his mind drifted from the moment.

_Clink-clink-clink_

_Clint ignored the rhythmic clanging of the metal weather vane outside on the barn roof as he inched his way along the wall, his bare toes digging into the narrow gap between the two wooden slats of the barn wall. He was almost there._

_Clink-clink-clink_

_A storm was coming. The evening light was fading faster than it normally did and soon the barn would be pitch black. Clint would really like to be settled for the night before that happened because maneuvering through the rafters in the dark wasn't exactly easy._

_The wind howled outside, a cold draft permeating the air around him as he moved._

_Just a little bit further._

_He reached for the nearest rafter just as the barn door slammed open._

_He pushed off the wall hastily and levered himself up onto the wooden beam, looking down into the dim barn as Mr. Jacobs came stomping in._

_Unerringly, the large man looked straight up at him._

" _Storm comin', Clinton."_

_Clint stayed silent. He remained perched on the rafter and glared down at him._

" _Gonna get cold out here tonight," Mr. Jacobs went on casually, in a tone that outwardly seemed caring and concerned._

_But Clint knew better. He knew what kind of man Phillip Jacobs was._

" _Get down here." Gone was the false warmth. In its place was a sharp hard tone, one Clint knew well._

_He didn't move, barely breathed._

_Mr. Jacobs had never been able to get him up here, not once in the two years since he'd started sleeping up here. He wouldn't be able to get him now._

" _Either come down here and take what you earned with that shit you pulled today, or else."_

" _Or else_ _ **what**_ _?" Clint challenged boldly. "You'll come up here? Go on,_ _ **try it**_ _."_

_He'd love to see the bulky man give it a shot. Maybe if he was lucky, Jacobs would fall and break his fat neck. Then Clint would be free of him forever._

" _Or else I'll go in and give it to your brother instead."_

_Clint's jaw clenched. He hadn't_ _**done** _ _anything, nothing but help a new kid with his chores. He didn't deserve to be punished for that._

_He watched Jacobs smirk and back towards the door._

" _Have it your way."_

" _Wait," Clint called sharply. "I'll come in."_

_With any luck, he'd take his beating and be able to escape back out to the barn before the storm hit. There was a chance he wouldn't, though, that Jacobs would have him trapped._

_But he couldn't let Barney take the punishment for something he did. He wouldn't. Barney was his brother. He had to protect him. Like Barney tried to do. He was certain, if faced with the same choice, Barney would do the same thing._

_He slowly made his way back down to earth and as soon as his feet touched down, Jacob's had a strong hand wrapped around his elbow. He pulled Clint out of the barn roughly, moving so fast, Clint's shorter legs stumbled as they tried to keep up._

_Outside, the sound of the old weather vane was louder as it moved with the wind._

_CLINK-CLINK-CLINK_

_Clint focused on the sound, doing his best to fill his mind with it. For a few moments, it was all he knew. The bruising grip on his arm disappeared and the knowledge of what was coming faded away._

_Then they hit the front porch. He tripped on the first stair – the price for his distraction – and Jacobs didn't give him a chance to find his feet before roughly yanking him up the rest of the way. He all but threw Clint against the screen door._

" _Get in the house."_

_Clint did._

_The other boys were gathered in the living room, waiting. Barney was there, brown eyes downcast._

_Jacobs shoved Clint to the center of the room._

" _What's rule number 3?" Jacobs asked lowly._

_Clint stood defiant in the middle of the room, and refused to answer._

_Jacob's eyes narrowed._

" _Rule 3, Clinton."_

_Anger flared in him. He hated it when Jacobs said his name. He hated the sound of it on the bastard's lips._

_Stubbornly, he pressed his mouth tighter closed._

_The backhand across the mouth was expected, but knowing it was coming didn't keep it from knocking Clint to the floor._

" _Frank, get the belt."_

_Clint kicked out when Jacobs reached for him again, catching the man in the shin._

_Jacobs growled in anger, kicked right back and caught Clint in the thigh._

_He bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, but didn't make a sound. He didn't cry. He didn't yell._

_When Jacobs grabbed his arm again, Clint came up swinging._

_He caught Jacobs across the lip, drawing blood. But even so, the blow barely even phased the man. He started to laugh, only to turn it into a snarl of anger when Clint clawed at his face._

_Jacobs jerked him around so hard, he nearly felt like his arm ripped out. Then he was on the floor again, thrown down so roughly his knees and hands stung where he'd caught himself._

_Out of the corner of his eye he saw Frank hand over the belt._

_Suddenly desperate, Clint looked to his brother, but Barney wasn't looking at him. So Clint looked to the door instead, wondering if he could make it back to the barn fast enough._

" _You can run. I won't even stop you. Just remember what I said in the barn." Jacobs warned casually._

_Clint froze._

" _ **Or else I'll give it to your brother instead."**_

_Clint looked at Barney again. This time his brother was returning his gaze. His brown eyes were silently ordering Clint to just do as he was told._

" _What'll it be, Clinton?"_

_Clint broke his gaze away from his brother's and pinned it on the floorboards. He stayed where he was. Even though he couldn't see him, he knew Jacobs was smirking in victory._

" _Get ready," Jacobs commanded._

_Obediently, Clint stripped his thin t-shirt off and dropped it to the floor next to him. Clint heard one of the other boys, he couldn't see who, draw in a sharp breath. The old bruises and the handful of scars on Clint's back tended to get that kind of reaction._

" _Rule 3," Jacobs prompted, voice smug and vicious._

_Clint drew in a breath, closed his eyes to prepare himself, and answered._

" _Do your chores and no one else's."_

" _That's right," Jacobs stepped closer. "Because if you do someone else's chores, you're robbing them of the chance to reap the benefits of those chores. They're there to build your character, to teach you discipline. Who are you to take that opportunity away from one of the other boys?"_

_Clint clenched his jaw and held his tongue, not trusting himself to keep it in check if he started speaking._

_Luckily, it seemed Jacobs was being rhetorical._

_The first blow had him dropping to one elbow from the force of it. But Clint stubbornly pushed himself back up onto both hands, resting his butt back on his heels and giving Jacobs a clean angle at his back._

_He could take it._

_A second blow landed and Clint bit his lip until he tasted blood again. He distantly heard Jacobs explaining to the others how Clint had brought this on himself. That this was the understood consequence of breaking the rules._

_But Clint tuned him out. He focused instead on the sounds of the storm outside. If he strained his ears, he could just barely hear the distant clanging of the metal weather vane._

_clink-clink-clink_

"Are you sure this is a good idea?"

Natasha's voice drew Clint back to the present, out of the memory he thought he'd forgotten. He blinked, realized he'd barely been breathing, and drew in a steadying breath. He had a pretty good idea what she meant, but he tossed her a questioning glance anyway.

Her gaze narrowed slightly, eyes studying his as if she sensed something was off. Clint did his best to shove away the memories and give her some semblance of a smirk to show her that he was as okay as he could be at the moment.

Her eyes remained wary. Fury was right. He wouldn't be able to fool her forever. But rather than push him, she let it go for now. Instead, she clarified her question.

"Going back to the carrier – are you sure you want to do this?" she asked. "Fury would have agreed to do this at the base upstate."

"I have to go back sometime. Now is as good as later," he replied easily, hoping the calm words masked the trepidation he felt. Going back to the carrier was probably a terrible idea. It wouldn't end well. There was no way it could. If the memories didn't do him in, he was sure more than a few of the agents on board would be happy to help that process on its way. Hell, he was willing to bet the three assholes that jumped him last time would be leading the charge.

The only reason – he was sure – that there hadn't been an armed escort waiting for them at the pick-up point, was that nobody had been given any notice that he was coming. The pilot himself had probably been given his orders and sped on his way before he could set off the carrier grapevine.

He held little hope that his arrival on the carrier would be met with the same lack of fanfare. Hell, part of him expected to get put down by a bullet he never saw coming. Another part was prepared for a behind-closed-doors beat down of some sort. He wouldn't rule out an angry mob…maybe some pitch forks and torches.

And maybe that's why he wasn't fighting Fury's request that they come to the carrier for his debrief. Maybe that was why he'd changed his tune from a few days ago when coming back to the carrier was the absolute last thing he ever wanted to do.

He deserved the hatred that would be waiting for him. He deserved for a few guys to corner him in an empty room and beat the shit out of him for killing somebody's brother or friend or lover. Hell, he even deserved that bullet he'd never see coming. As far as a pretty big part of him was concerned, he deserved to be labeled a goddamned traitor and executed.

He couldn't admit any of that to Natasha, though. She was convinced he'd done no wrong, that he shouldn't blame himself, that it wasn't his fault. Nothing he could say would change her mind. Just like nothing she said would change his. She'd believe what she wanted to believe and he'd believe what he knew to be the truth.

He didn't deserve absolution.

He didn't want it.

He wanted to stop being told it wasn't his fault. That it was out of his control. He wanted to stop being told that he deserved no punishment or condemnation.

What he wanted? He wanted someone to just take their goddamned pound of flesh in retribution. Maybe then he'd feel something again. Maybe he'd start to feel like he had a chance at making it right. Or maybe it was the opposite. Maybe he wanted to take the punishment so that, for those few minutes, he wouldn't _have_ to feel anything. He could become numb to everything but the pain.

Because that was it, really. That was his life now. Either he didn't feel anything because he couldn't let himself, couldn't open the door to what losing Phil meant, or he felt too damn much because he couldn't forget what he'd done in Loki's name. He couldn't forget the lives he'd ended or the damage he'd done.

No matter which way he cut it, he came out the loser. Which was fitting, he supposed.

Natasha hadn't bothered replying. She'd settled instead for leveling a doubtful look on him before turning her attention towards the pilot as they heard the landing procedures begin. It wasn't long after that until the jet lightly touched down on the carrier deck.

Clint forced himself to stand and move casually towards the large bay door. He felt more than heard Natasha follow him. He hadn't brought his bow, an intentional attempt to show himself as a non-threat that he hoped would unruffle some feathers. But now, as the bay door lowered and he saw the dozen armed agents waiting on the deck – one brandishing a set of handcuffs clearly – he wished for the familiar weight of his quiver across his back and the feel of his bow in his hand.

The hostility bled into the air, settling around them like a thick, choking cloud. He'd never, in his time at SHIELD, been truly treated as an enemy. Even after he defied the Council and brought Natasha in as an asset, very few had _really_ seen him as an enemy.

As bat-shit crazy? Yes. As manipulated and possibly seduced? Also yes. As reckless and stupid? Definitely yes.

But as an enemy? As a true threat that needed to be handled? No.

But it was how they were looking at him now.

Natasha stepped up to his side, shoulder brushing his. The silent show of solidarity and support, spurred him into movement. He started down the ramp calmly, doing his best to keep his body relaxed, despite the imminent threat he could sense from nearly every one of the men sent to meet him. He wouldn't portray himself as the dangerous traitor they wanted to see, not even by defensively prepping for attack.

He stopped at the bottom of the ramp, nearly toe-to-toe with the agent with the restraints. Clint knew him, they'd had neighboring lanes at the range more than once. Ben Holmes. They'd never exactly been friends, but they'd peacefully co-existed. Holmes had never seemed to harbor any ill-will towards him and had even complimented him on his range scores more than once.

But there was hate in the man's eyes now – pure, unadulterated hate.

"Clint Barton," Holmes said sharply, "I have orders from the Council to take you into custody as a hostile force pending your evaluation and the Council's judgement."

It wasn't the first time Clint had been labeled a 'hostile force' by the Council. They seemed to look for every opportunity to throw him in handcuffs and toss him in an isolation cell. Though, he had to admit, they'd gotten better since Matthew Williams' seat had been vacated. They didn't violently hate him anymore.

They just _mildly_ hated him now.

"He's here on Fury's orders," Natasha spoke up sharply, her voice cracking like a whip and making no less than three of the men facing them flinch as if she'd been wielding the real thing.

"Then Fury can come see him in the detention level," Holmes fired back.

Without even looking at her, Clint could feel the aggression building in Natasha. Getting into it with these guys in the middle of the Helicarrier flight deck wouldn't do anybody any favors, so he waved her off with a slight shake of his head.

She remained tense and ready, but didn't go on the offensive.

"Let's get to it then." Clint stepped forward, extending his wrists in a show of submission.

Honestly, he wondered why the hell he didn't see it coming. But then again maybe he did. Maybe some pathetic part of him had just ignored it. Because, after all, the intent was written all over the man's goddamned face.

Holmes grabbed his wrist, twisted sharply and kicked out at Clint's legs. On a good day, the move would have been laughably easy to counter, even caught off guard as he was. But when the steel toe of Holmes' boot caught a bad angle on his damaged left ankle, Clint's balance abandoned him.

His body twisted as it fell, thanks to Holmes' grip on his wrist, and he hit the deck hard. He barely managed to get his free wrist under his chest to try and cushion his broken ribs. It wasn't quite enough and his chest ignited in fire. Then his chin snapped against the tarmac and he tasted blood.

"Sonovabitch…" he groaned, trying to get his free hand up to inspect the damage to his mouth. A quick inspection with his tongue assured him all of his teeth were still in place, but there was blood coming from somewhere. It felt like that somewhere was his tongue. His fingers brushed across a freshly busted lip and a missing layer of skin on his chin before his wrist was snatched back and twisted behind his back, securing it and his other wrist too tightly in handcuffs. Less than a beat later, a knee dug unto his spine, pressing him down and grinding his broken ribs together.

He heard a curse in Russian and then the weight on his back vanished. A familiar lithe shadow flew over him and then there were sounds of a scuffle. Clint moved immediately, thoughts of compliance fleeing now that Natasha was in the mix. He'd back her up, even if it would only get him into more trouble.

He rolled to his back, threaded his feet and legs through his handcuffed arms and started to stand. He made it to his knees just as he sensed a presence over his left shoulder. He ducked the blow with so little room to spare that he felt the air shift over his head. While the attacker was recovering from the missed hit, Clint made it to his feet. A simple roundhouse kick put his assailant on the ground.

Clint found Natasha, putting his back to hers as the rest of the agents circled them. He saw Holmes unconscious at Natasha's feet and couldn't help but feel a little smug. Nobody pissed of his fiery spider without paying a price.

There were ten of them left. Easy pickings for Strike Team Delta even on a bad day. Except they had guns. Clint had his knives and Natasha could always be counted on to have at least four different types of weapons stored on her person at any given time.

They could take them. It might not be pretty and somebody might get shot, but they could take them.

The circle of agents tightened their ranks, pressing closer, but still just out of arms reach. Clint took as deep a breath as he could around the burning pain in his chest and readied himself. He felt Natasha take a similar preparatory breath behind him.

The agents converged.

"STAND DOWN!"

Nick Fury's voice rang out like a shot from a cannon, freezing everyone on the flight deck in their spot.

Clint risked a look away from the immobile agents in front of him to watch the Director march across the flight deck, Maria Hill at his shoulder.

The look in the Director's eye could light a wet log on fire. Judging by the way every single one of the attacking agents shrunk back and fell in line, they all felt the burn. Clint let himself relax slightly and turned to meet Fury face to face.

"Boy, you and trouble are joined at the hip," was the Director's greeting before he blew past Clint and stepped between him and the group of agents. A few of them were helping the freshly conscious Holmes to his feet while a few more were trying to rouse the one Clint had put down.

"On your goddamned feet!" Fury barked.

Holmes snapped to attention so fast, he nearly threw his own balance.

"What in the hell is going on here?" Fury demanded, his one eye glaring so hard at Holmes, the man had to swallow before answering.

"Sir, I have orders from the Council…"

"Well now, that's interesting. Because last I checked, you take your orders from _me_. Though it sure seems to me like you're looking to change that."

"No, sir," Holmes shook his head sharply.

"No, sir, you don't take orders from me?" Fury snapped.

Holmes paled.

"No, sir. I meant I wasn't looking to change who I take orders from."

"Then why in the hell are you acting on an order from someone that is most decidedly _not_ me?"

"Because the Council…"

"The Council is my concern, not yours. And I am well aware of their current stance on Agent Barton. You can take your team and get the hell out of my sight."

"But Barton…" Holmes glared over Fury's shoulder right at Clint.

"Agent Barton," Fury walked back to Clint and produced a handcuff key from his pocket, "is here on my orders. Until such time as it is ruled otherwise, he is no enemy of SHIELD and will not be treated as such." Clint's wrists were free a moment later and while he rubbed at them, Fury turned back to Holmes. "Have I made myself clear?"

Holmes tossed one last hate-filled glare at Clint and then nodded.

"Then as I said, you're dismissed," Fury spoke in a tone made of ice.

Holmes and his men dispersed immediately but not before the team leader sent one last glare at Clint. Clint met the look squarely and didn't look away. It wasn't over between them, not by a long shot.

"You two, with me," Fury ordered Clint and Natasha even as he started back the way he'd come.

Nat exchanged a glance with Clint before they moved together to follow him.

Once they were inside the bowls of the carrier, Fury spoke without pausing his stride.

"Hill, let Dr. Taylor know that Agent Barton will be along momentarily."

Hill nodded and peeled away.

"You're making me talk to psych?" Clint asked sourly.

Fury stopped abruptly and turned, forcing Clint and Natasha to stop walking or run into him.

"Barton, it has taken every sweet-talking, threat-giving, manipulative trick I have to keep you off the Council's radar while you took a beat to catch your breath. If they had their way, you'd have been in isolation the second the dust settled and the blood dried. I know that what happened with Loki wasn't your fault. I know he had you under his control. But if I'm gonna keep you out from in front of the firing squad, we have to cross every damn 't' and dot every damn 'i'. That means talking to psych. It means a full debrief. It means you keep your damn mouth shut and do as you're told. Understood?"

Clint blinked, searched Fury's gaze and tried to identify the reason for the tension he could hear in the Director's tone. His gaze narrowed when he saw an unfamiliar vein of worry in Fury's eye. Then it hit him.

"They're still out for blood, aren't they?"

Fury's jaw clenched and Clint had his answer. A group of agents made their way past, every one taking a special moment to give Clint the full weight of their glare. He felt Natasha shift protectively closer.

"You should have just let them take me into custody," Clint pointed out once the group of agents disappeared around a corner. "Might have eased the tension."

"You and I both know what would have happened if those boys had gotten you alone," Fury replied immediately. Clint did. But if it would have helped ease the bloodlust… If taking a beating meant tensions on board went down a notch, maybe he should have just taken it.

Fury seemed to read his mind, because the director's gaze narrowed.

"Was never an option, Barton."

Natasha shifted next to him, telling him without words that she agreed with their boss. Clint let it go.

"So what now?"

"Go meet with Dr. Taylor. Get her to sign off on your return and then come see me."

Clint took a breath and nodded.

* * *

Clint stared across the short distance between his and Dr. Bridgett Taylor's chairs.

She was watching him carefully, pen poised over her ever-present notepad.

They'd been sitting like this, in silence, for several minutes. Ever since Natasha had been told in no uncertain terms to wait outside, in fact.

Finally, Dr. Taylor shifted, tilting her head.

"I'm told you don't remember anything of your time in captivity."

Clint blinked slowly.

The less he said, the better chance he had of keeping the ruse alive.

"Is it true?" she asked bluntly.

Clint arched a challenging eyebrow.

"Why would I lie?" he countered.

She sat back in her chair and regarded him seriously.

"I'm not sure," she admitted. "Maybe what you went through was so traumatizing that you're hoping if you ignore it, it'll just go away."

Clint kept his expression carefully neutral, giving nothing away. She'd hit that nail pretty much on the head.

"Or maybe you know what the Council would do if they thought they could gain intel from you."

Then there was that.

Clint shrugged slightly, giving her a slightly sarcastic look.

"Or maybe I just don't remember," he countered.

She narrowed her gaze, studying him, looking for the truth. But Clint prided himself on his ability to lie when it mattered.

"You can stare all you want. Whatever power that spear holds, whatever Loki did to me…it erased everything. I don't remember a damn thing."

A moment longer, and the intensity of her gaze faded. She believed him.

"The mind has a way of protecting itself, Agent Barton. Maybe it was the spear that erased your memories, or maybe it's your mind's way of protecting you from what happened. If that's the case, maybe you're better off _not_ knowing."

Clint had wished, more than once over the last 13 days, that his mind _had_ protected itself. He wished he didn't remember. Instead, he was stuck in a living nightmare.

Maybe she was right. Maybe he was foolishly pretending in the hopes that the lie would become reality.

Either way, he wasn't gonna cop to the lie now, not with her. Maybe not ever.

"Let's talk about Phil," she quietly suggested.

Clint's eyes hardened, shields slamming into place.

"No," he denied firmly.

"Agent Barton," she tried, but Clint was done.

He stood, angling for the door. She let him get his hand on the handle before she spoke.

"You walk out that door and you can say goodbye to a return to active duty today."

Clint froze, jaw clenching.

"I get it," she added. "Message received. You don't want to talk about it. It's still too fresh." Then gentler. "It's okay. It's okay to not want to talk about him. It's okay to be sad. It's even okay to be angry. It's called grief, Agent Barton. And it's part of being human."

Clint didn't move, not to leave, but also not to go back to his seat.

"You can get away with not dealing with the loss for a little while. But sooner or later," she went on, "that load will get too heavy to carry. And when it does, just remember that you have people you can talk to."

He shot her a skeptical look and she huffed a laugh.

"Don't worry. I don't mean me. I don't know what I'd do if you walked in of your own free will and _asked_ to talk. I'm talking about your partner."

He looked back towards the door, imagining Natasha pacing on the other side.

He heard Dr. Taylor sigh.

"I really wish there was something I could say to you that would help."

And she sounded like she genuinely _did_. But they both knew there was nothing anybody could say.

"I'm signing off on your return. Whatever concerns the Council has about your mental stability, they're unfounded. You seem coherent and in control. We both know you're no traitor. And you seem to be the same pain in the ass that you've always been. Everything else … well, let's just say I know you, Barton. And I know you won't let it stop you from doing your job."

She moved around behind her desk and leaned over to sign a form. Then she slit it into his file and returned that to her filing cabinet.

She approached him then, where he still stood by the door watching her.

"Just because I'm releasing you back to active duty, doesn't mean you're ready for it. Please consider that and take a minute to think about whether or not this is what you really want."

Clint regarded her for a moment and then answered quietly.

"I need to work."

Her expression softened.

"I get that. But you need to realize that distracting yourself with work will only take you so far, for so long."

Clint met her gaze seriously.

"I just need it to take me far enough, for long enough." Until he could face it, if that day ever came.

She nodded, smiling sadly and reached around him to open the door.

"As always, Barton, my door is always open, okay?"

He gave her a slight nod and left.

* * *

They met Fury at the door of the Council chamber.

"This is as far as you go, Romanoff," the director informed them even as he nodded Clint forward.

"But…" Natasha started to protest, only to be silence by Fury's glare.

"This is a closed debrief," he explained sharply. "As mandated by the Council."

Natasha's fists clenched and her posture stiffened.

"Relax," Clint nudged her, "I've been fending off these particular dogs for years. Besides, I've got Fury to back me up."

She didn't look convinced, but backed off anyway.

Fury opened the door and motioned Clint in ahead of him. After taking a moment to draw in a fortifying breath, Clint entered. To his relief, the screens were still dark. He moved to the middle of the room and felt Fury move to stand at his shoulder.

"You _are_ here to back me up, right?" Clint joked wearily, trying to quell the nervous pit in his stomach. He hated meeting with the Council. It never seemed to go well for him. To his surprise, Fury's response was immediate and genuine.

"Every goddamned step of the way, Barton."

The words brought him unexpected comfort and helped ease some of his tension as the screens started to flicker to life.

When all the Council members were there, Fury spoke.

"Council Members, as per your orders, Agent Barton is here to be debriefed concerning the Loki incident."

" _This is a little more complicated than just a simple debrief,"_ a woman on the far left screen stated crisply. _"There's the matter of Agent Barton's participation in the alien terrorist attack."_

"Participation?" Fury questioned doubtfully. "In my report, I clearly outlined the nature of Agent Barton's forced induction into Loki's ranks. Whatever participation there was, it wasn't voluntary and therefore requires no further discussion," Fury fired back immediately.

" _Yes, we have your report concerning the invader, Loki's, arrival and recruitment of Agent Barton,"_ an Asian man spoke up.

Clint arched an incredulous eyebrow at their terminology.

"Recruitment?" he questioned with a huff that was short on neither sarcasm nor disbelief.

Attention swung to him and the room fell into an uncomfortable silence for a few breaths.

Clint didn't shy away from their hard stares and instead glared right back.

"I'm just saying," he explained slowly, not trying to hide his annoyance, "You guys keep throwing these words around…like 'participation' and 'recruitment'…like I had some sort of choice here. If the headache I've had for the past two weeks is anything to go by, that's not exactly how it went down."

" _And exactly how_ _ **did**_ _it happen, Agent Barton? Do enlighten us,"_ the woman spoke again.

Clint worked his jaw in both legitimate and contrived frustration. He was so sick of explaining himself to these people. For nine years he'd been justifying his every move to them. And beyond that, he needed them to believe that what he said next was the absolute truth.

"I wish to hell I knew. But seems something in my brain is misfiring on that particular subject."

In the brief moments of silence that followed, the Council members managed to portray the exact same expressions – collective disappointment and disbelief – without having to even look at each other.

" _I find that hard to believe."_ The Asian council man – Clint didn't know his name – stated finally.

"Well, I don't know what to tell you," Clint shot back sharply. "I've got nothing. I lost two days, during which, I apparently did some nasty shit. I'll own that, even if I don't remember it. But I was in no way a willing participant in Loki's bullshit play for world domination."

" _How can you be so certain,"_ the sole Council woman challenged. _"If you don't_ _ **remember**_ _, how can even_ _ **you**_ _be certain you did not willingly conspire with the Asgardian known as Loki?"_

Clint couldn't decide if he was more offended, insulted, or pissed off by that.

"If you don't know the answer to that," Clint replied in a low, dark tone, "then I'm not gonna bother telling you."

Fury stepped forward then.

"Agent Barton's record, save for the Romanoff incident, is exemplary. And even _that_ , I think we can collectively agree, worked out for the best given that Natasha Romanoff has proven to be an invaluable and _loyal_ asset. He's given this Council absolutely no reason to question his loyalty. Hell, the man was able to resist _magic_ to keep from killing _me_ , so I think he's earned a measure of respect." He shifted then, shoulder brushing Clint's. "And since debrief seems to be far from your minds, that leads me to ask, just why exactly are we here?"

The Council members looked varying degrees of annoyed, but it was the woman, again, that spoke up.

" _We are here to debrief Agent Barton and ascertain his viability as an agent going forward."_

Clint scowled. Why did she have to say it like he was some sort of experiment?

"I'm just gonna go ahead and call bullshit on that," Fury shot back easily. "You're here looking for a sacrificial lamb. With Loki meeting justice back on Asgard, Agent Barton is your easiest target."

" _Director Fury, we aren't –"_ one of the men protested, but Fury cut him off.

"You aren't _what?"_ he challenged. "Aren't trying to lay the blame on _him_?" He gestured at Clint. "Because to me, that's exactly what it looks like and I'm not going to just stand by and let you crucify one of my top agents just so you can say justice was dealt out for the sake of _politics_."

" _He conspired with the enemy!"_ the woman argued sharply. _"You reported yourself that Loki had intelligence that he couldn't have discovered from anyone but a high clearance SHIELD agent. He attacked the carrier. He killed countless agents and led men to kill countless more. How can you dare claim he bears no responsibility?"_

Clint felt gutted, faces flashing through his mind's eye even as he stood ramrod straight and silent. He had no defense. He'd done exactly what they claimed, willingly or not, he'd _done_ it.

Fury's voice had lost its fire when he spoke again.

"Because I know this man." Fury turned then, met Clint's gaze with more compassion, warmth, and understanding than Clint had ever seen. It took everything he had to keep his jaw from going lax. "I know what he's made of." Fury continued to hold his gaze. "And there's no world where he'd willingly turn on his own or bring harm to _any_ of his fellow agents."

Clint clenched his jaw. He knew what Fury was trying to say. He was trying again, to absolve him concerning Phil and Todd. But Clint didn't want absolution. But rather than accept the mounting protest in Clint's gaze, Fury turned back to the Council.

"Loki took control of Agent Barton, and others, including Doctor Selvig, who I don't see standing under judgement."

" _Doctor Selvig's expertise is invaluable to our organization,"_ the Asian replied calmly.

"And I'm what?" Clint spoke up again, earning a silencing glare from Fury, which he promptly ignored. "Expendable?"

Saying the word felt like it sucked the air right out of his lungs. Not so many years ago, he had believed that with everything he had. Phil had begged him to believe otherwise, to recognize what he meant to those who cared about him, and what he meant to Phil. He still struggled with it and because of that he couldn't help but acknowledge that maybe, in that, they weren't so far off the mark. What was he compared to someone like Selvig?

The lack of protest from the screens, told him that he'd pretty much nailed it.

"If that's the true state of this situation, then we're done here," Fury stated sharply, eye hard. "You will not pursue Agent Barton in this just because it's _convenient_. Instead, you'll let it be known that you've found him to be nothing but a victim in this situation. Or so help me _God_ , you will have to come through me to get to him."

There was a stunned silence throughout the room in the face of Fury's abrupt and heated defense. Clint found himself staring with the same shock as the Council members.

"Now ask yourselves, is that really a war you wanna start?" Fury finished, voice hard as steel.

With clenched jaws, each of the Council members slowly nodded and then ended their transmission. When the last screen went dark, Clint watched Fury's spine minutely relax and his chin drop briefly to his chest. Clint stared at him, still somehow amazed, after all this time, that Fury would go to bat for him.

"You didn't have to do that," he finally stated quietly.

Fury's sarcastic huff was more than a little surprising. And Clint had only just processed it when the Director turned to face him.

"Yes, I did." His reply was firm and confident. "Because I know for a fact that the only thing _he_ would want from me is to protect _you_. So I will, in _every_ way I can."

For a moment, a flash of time so brief it almost didn't exist, the door that Clint had kept so firmly closed…opened. And in that moment, devastation so severe and crippling swept over him that he felt his breath leave him in a rush and he had to break his gaze from Fury's just so he could keep it together. Then the moment passed. He drew in a slow, fortifying breath, and slammed that door closed again.

"It's okay to grieve, Barton," Fury tried.

Clint shook his head sharply against the words.

"Don't," he snapped, raising his gaze again to meet the Director's. "Do you have an assignment for me?"

For a several long moments, Fury just stared at him, gaze searching his. Then, before Clint could be certain just what Fury was looking for or if he found it, the director nodded once.

"I do." He reached into the pocket of his jacket and produced a flash drive. He tossed it in Clint's direction and he snatched it out of the air with ease.

"What's the mission?" Clint asked as he tightened his fingers around the flash drive.

"Straight-up assassination. I've got a target, needs retiring. I figure you're just the man for the job."

Clint nodded, looking down at the drive.

"There's a jet gassed up and waiting for you in the hangar bay. So I suggest you say your goodbyes and find your way to it."

Clint looked up sharply.

"Goodbyes? She's not coming with me?"

Fury's eyebrow arched above his eye patch.

"Do you need a babysitter?"

Clint glowered.

"No."

"Then I suggest you get moving."

He didn't need to be told again. He headed for the door.

* * *

Clint stared at the door in front of him, questioning his decision to come here even as he told himself he _had to_. He might not get another chance.

He had to say goodbye.

He raised his hand, hesitated once more, then rapped his knuckles sharply on the door. In answer, there was a loud thump and then a round of laughter – both masculine and feminine – from somewhere in the room.

"Jesus…" he muttered to himself, rolling his eyes upward and hardly believing his _timing_. He had to physically stop himself from just walking away and forgetting this whole horrifying moment. But then a quiet voice in his mind whispered that this might be the last time he ever saw this man and it was worth whatever embarrassment waited on the other side of the door.

He reached to pinch the bridge of his nose, trying to force his lingering headache away. Then he took a breath and reached to knock again. But just as his knuckles brushed the door, it opened beneath his hand.

It wasn't Dan on the other side of the door, though. It was, unsurprisingly, Rachel Braxton. The surprising part, to Clint at least, was that she was completely clothed and didn't look…flushed or anything. He arched an eyebrow in vague confusion even as hers widened in shock.

"Barton," she stated in a flat, surprised tone.

A moment later she seemed to give herself a mental shake and her expression softened from surprise into something more like warm sympathy. She quirked her lips in a sad smile of greeting and stepped back, jerking her head to invite him inside.

"Come on in," she offered. "We're just packing and Dan decided to _drop_ things." She waved a hand towards the man in question and Clint caught a glint of something shining on her hand, her _left_ hand.

She caught the look and her smile warmed, filling with joy, though she didn't offer a comment.

Dan was hunched behind a _very_ large box, a bit red faced, but smiling.

"Christ, Rachel, what did you put in this thing? Free weights?" he huffed in a light tone even as his gaze met Clint's. There was a serious weight in his eyes that didn't match the levity of his words. But when he spoke again, his voice was still light. "I give up. Rachel, if I can get this on the damned handcart, can you roll it down to the hangar?" He gave her a stern look then, "No lifting though, get one of the crew there to load it up."

Rachel rolled her eyes at the warning, giving Clint a look that clearly said 'what a mother hen' and then she looked back at Dan.

"Yes _dear_ ," she drolled. "I read those pregnancy books you bought…all _six of them_." She glanced at Clint and stage whispered, "He's a worrier _and_ a control freak."

Despite himself, Clint felt the corner of his mouth quirk up.

"Shocker," he whispered back sarcastically.

"I'm right here," Dan groused, giving them both a dry glare. Clint watched him start struggling with the box again. Without giving the doctor a chance to give him shit about aggravating broken ribs, Clint strode forward and crouched, helping Dan lift the box onto the pushcart. The doctor _did_ give him a scolding glare, which Clint had absolutely no trouble ignoring.

He shifted out of the way and watched Rachel push the cart from the room, letting the door fall closed behind her. He felt Dan's gaze on him, but couldn't quite make himself return it.

Instead, he busied himself glancing down at his own boots, then up and around the room, taking in the changes…the lack of personal belongings, the stacks of boxes, the stripped mattress and emptied closet.

It felt so final now. Dan was really leaving.

The relief was still there. Away from SHIELD, away from _him_ , was the safest place for the doctor.

He heard Dan sigh.

"Thanks for helping with that." Dan smiled slightly. "Rachel hates asking for help, even when she knows it's not something she can do herself." Dan snorted then, drawing a quick glance from Clint. "Come to think of it," the doctor went on, "I'm the exact same way. So are a lot of people around here."

The meaningful look Dan gave him was _not_ lost on Clint.

He returned the look with a sarcastic glare.

"I didn't come for help," he stated. "I'm heading out on a mission. Don't know how long I'll be gone. I wanted to catch you before, uh…" Clint gestured around the room and cleared his oddly dry throat, "before you left."

Dan nodded.

"I was going to track you down myself if you didn't show before I headed out. Too many years to not say goodbye." Dan sat down on the edge of the bare bed. "What's on your mind?"

Clint couldn't seem to make himself meet Dan's familiar gaze, so he wandered the room instead. He eyed the pile of things still left to be packed and ran his hand along the top of a box.

Dan's question was a loaded one. What was on his mind? A whole hell of a lot of _not_ good stuff. But he didn't want to talk about that. It wasn't why he was here.

"Just wanted to say goodbye," he finally admitted, his back to the doctor. He turned and managed a smile. "Like you said, too many years, you know?"

Dan gave him a long, hard look.

"Grab a seat, kid." He jerked his chin to indicate the box next to Clint's legs. "There's something you need to hear."

Clint grimaced and didn't move.

"Look, I don't really wanna do the whole kumbaya thing, Dan…"

In a gesture Clint was completely familiar with – he'd caused it enough times over the years – Dan rolled his eyes.

"Oh, sit the fuck down, Barton, and quit giving me shit. Since day damned one with you, it's _never_ the easy way."

Clint quirked his eyebrow ruefully at that. The man _did_ have a point there. With the most put-upon sigh he could manage, Clint slid down onto the box Dan had indicated. He gave his friend a look of sarcastic question, asking without words if he was _happy now_.

Dan's lips quirked into a sarcastic grin.

" _Better_. You're too kind," he deadpanned.

Then Dan's gaze grew heavier, communicating multiple emotions. Dan had never been particularly hard to read, but now he was practically projecting. Clint could almost feel the doctor's emotions in the room with them. Grief. Pain. Sympathy. They all warred for dominance on the doctor's face. Finally, Dan tilted his head a little and sighed.

"Look, I need you to hear something from me, kid. Something you probably don't want to hear. Can you shelve your typical Barton attitude and be so gracious as to let me say what I need to say?"

Clint's expression tightened and then blanked. He could almost feel the color drain from his face. He didn't want to talk about emotional shit. He didn't want to talk about Phil. He could see, as clearly as if Dan had waved a neon sign, that _that_ was where this was headed.

He could barely even _think_ about Phil, much less talk about him.

He eyed the door, gauging the distance and how many steps it would take him to make it there.

Dan caught the glance and sighed.

"It's not about Phil. Please, Clint…I promised."

_That_ got his attention. His gaze snapped back to Dan's and after a moment of hesitation, he gave him a slight nod to continue.

"Thanks, kid," Dan sighed gratefully. "I appreciate it. Look…I, uh, I was the last person Todd spoke to…"

Clint drew in a sharp breath, gaze cutting away and jaw clenching.

"I don't want to-"

But Dan spoke over his protest, ignored it.

"He asked me to tell you something," he stated firmly. His gaze had dropped though, studying something on his hands. "I think you need to hear it, even though I don't expect you to _listen_ to it."

Clint's gaze narrowed. He didn't like where this was going. He eyed the door again, but one thought stopped him.

Todd's last words…Todd's last _moments_ …had been about _him_. He couldn't walk away from that any more than he could stop himself from watching the video of what Loki had done to Phil.

"Dammitall, Clint," Dan's voice was rough as he forced the words out. "He told me to tell you that this – _all_ of this – it wasn't your fault, it _isn't_ your fault." Dan held up a hand before Clint could say anything to contradict the claim. "And I _know._ You don't want to hear that, not from me, not from him, not from anyone, because you're too damn busy blaming yourself. Believe it or not, I get it. _You_ survived. They didn't. It's nothing I haven't seen before."

Clint stood abruptly, turning away and putting his back to Dan. He braced his hands on the stack of boxes in front of him and dropped his head briefly, drawing in a deep breath.

"That's not…" he shook his head and cleared his throat. "That's not what this is about. It's not survivor's guilt, Dan. Todd didn't know – _you_ don't know – what happened."

Dan's gaze snapped up to him, eyes narrowing.

"You think I don't know that, kid?" In spite of the emotion in the doctor's eyes, his voice was soft, almost reflective. "Todd said it. He asked me to tell _you_. Because he _knew_ you. He _knew_ you'd be blaming yourself whether it was your fault or not. You always do, whenever anything goes wrong." Dan's lips quirked a little. "'The pain in the ass will blame himself.' Those were some of his last words, Clint. His _last words_ were for you to know it was _not your fault_."

Dan's confession had a swell of emotion rising dangerously in Clint's chest. He was in no way equipped to deal with it right now, so he fought it back, forced it down. He clenched his jaw, hands tightening into fists where they rested on the box. He clenched his eyes closed, kept his head lowered, back to Dan, and he drew in a deep, centering breath.

Behind him, Dan went on, voice full of understanding.

"I know it's not that easy. I _know_ , okay?" he assured. "I can only begin to imagine what's going through your head right now, and I can guess that _blame_ is the understatement of the fucking _year_. But Clint…you have to find a way to the other side of this. You owe Phil that much. You _can't_ give up on yourself. Not over this. Not _ever_."

Clint's head came up at the mention of his handler, temper sparking to life. But he still didn't turn around, still stayed silent as Dan went on.

"Not when every single one of your friends believes what you _don't_ – that this was never your fault and that you _mean something_ to _all_ of us."

Clint had enough. He turned, fire rising in his gaze.

" _Don't_ , Dan. Don't tell me what I _owe_ him. Don't put that on me right now."

"Clint…" Dan raised a calming hand, but Clint just talked over him.

"I'm _here_ , Dan. I'm doing what he goddamned _wanted_. That's _all_ I've got in me right now, to _be here_ , to _do my job._ That's all I've got in me for _any_ of you."

A matching fire lit up Dan's expression.

" _Good,"_ he stated firmly, vehemently. "You make _damned_ sure it stays that way. Because there _will_ be a tomorrow, Clint. If you _let_ it come. Do you get me?"

Clint reached to rub at the bridge of his nose, head pounding in time with his raging pulse. He knew what Dan's worry was, where this was coming from.

Suicide. He was worried Clint would give up in the worst way.

Maybe a few years ago, before Natasha, it wouldn't have been much of a stretch. But now, it hadn't even crossed his mind.

"You're a fucking _survivor_ and I want to make sure you stay that way," Dan added, worry coating every word.

Clint sighed and dropped his hand back down to his side.

"I'm not checking out any time soon, Dan. I wouldn't go there. I sure as hell wouldn't do that to Natasha…or to you."

Dan's gaze fixed on his, eyes piercing. Clint didn't look away. He let Dan search for the truth of his words.

"What do you want me to do? Pinky promise?" he groused. "I swear to you, Dan," he promised as sincerely as he could. "I wouldn't go there. I _won't_ go there."

And he wouldn't. Because Dan was right, he _was_ a survivor. He had always, and would always, survive. But more than that, he would never willingly go somewhere Natasha couldn't follow.

Finally, Dan seemed satisfied and his shoulders dropped in relief.

He rubbed a hand across his face and when he looked back at Clint, the doctor looked years older.

"I'm sorry, Clint," he offered quietly, voice hoarse. "I'm so damned sorry." Dan's eyes closed against the wetness Clint saw pooling in them. "I wasn't _there_. I don't know that I could have saved him. Probably couldn't have. But I wish to hell I could have given you another miracle, kid."

Clint shook his head, jaw clenching. He couldn't do this. He couldn't talk about what ifs or could haves and would haves. It was too hard. It was too _painful_.

"Don't, Dan," he all but pleaded. "Please…just _don't_."

Dan blew out a frustrated sigh.

"Don't _what_ , Clint? Tell you that I care? That I know you're hurting? That you aren't fucking _alone_? That if you ever _do_ want to talk, you have people to talk to?" Clint could only watch as tears started to slide unrestrained down Dan's face. "I feel like _we_ failed _you_ , kid. Not the other way around. Not _ever_ the other way around. Hell, that's rule damned one in medicine – never blame the victim."

Clint looked away, down at some spot on the floor. Dan's grief was a tangible thing in the room with them. Where Clint had buried his, locked it away, Dan was letting himself feel it. He was doing what Clint wasn't strong enough to do.

As Dan's words sank in, Clint latched onto one thing he couldn't let pass.

"You didn't _fail_ me," he stated firmly, with absolute conviction. He saw it then, a path to make it through this conversation. "I saw the footage, Dan. You being there, it wouldn't have changed anything. Miracles don't exist. Sometimes we just get _lucky_. Luck was running pretty damned thin that day."

Dan met his gaze.

"Then can you do me a favor, Clint?"

Clint hesitated. He wasn't going to commit to anything without knowing what he was getting into, so he stayed silent. Dan didn't seem to notice.

"Allow yourself to believe that this wasn't your fault. Not now, not right away. I _know_ you, kid. Too damn well. I don't expect you to just collapse in the fetal position, cry it out, and then stand up and suddenly believe me on that point. Just…don't shut the door on it. And let yourself believe that maybe, some day, this won't all be as awful as it is right now."

Clint stiffened, rejecting the plea with both his posture and his suddenly harder expression.

"Phil is dead, Dan. _Todd_ is dead. There's no day down the road that this isn't as 'awful' as it is right now." He stated the names without feeling, without emotion. They were facts, not family. "Don't ask me for something I can't give you."

Dan looked stricken at his blunt words. And just as quickly as it had risen, some of the fire drained out of Clint.

"I'm sorry," he offered quietly. "I just…" he sighed. "I _can't_ do this right now. Can't you get that? I just _can't_." The apology was a weak one, but it was all he had.

Dan's gaze softened.

"I get it, Clint," he admitted. "Just…I just want you to keep your mind open to the possibilities. That's all I'm asking for. That, and to remember that you have _friends_. Ones who don't give a shit how low _your_ opinion of yourself is."

Desperate for this conversation to be _over_ , Clint gave him a tight nod and changed the subject, clawing for more stable ground.

"So Italy, huh? And a rug rat on the way? Saw the ring…there a shotgun involved?"

The joke had the effect he wanted. Dan rolled his eyes. His mouth opened, probably to offer some snarky comeback, but then he just sighed, a dreamy expression settling on his face.

"Nah," he smiled, "I've had the ring for three months. I just…wasn't ready to take the leap."

Clint nodded in understanding.

"I'm assuming I'm invited." He smirked. "I'll have to check my schedule of course, but I'm sure I can squeeze it in." The humor felt forced, like it wasn't quite rolling off his tongue as easily as it used to. But he kept it up, upheld the front that was expected of him.

Dan chuckled.

"Give us a month or so to get settled and then we'd be honored to have you and Natasha as our witnesses. It's just going to be a small, courthouse-type thing. Then you'll have to recommend someplace incredible for a celebratory dinner."

Clint nodded.

" _That_ I can do." He glanced to the door again, then down at his watch. He needed to go. The jet was waiting and he still had to say goodbye to Natasha. "I gotta get going, man, but…you know…don't be a stranger, huh? And I better be the first one to get a picture of that rug rat when it's born."

Dan nodded.

"Before you go," he reached over to the bedside table, "a parting gift. Make sure you keep it close." Dan handed him a small package wrapped in, of all things, paper towels.

Clint took it with an arched eyebrow.

"Used paper towels…you shouldn't have," he quipped, feeling almost normal for a moment. He latched onto that moment fiercely and shot Dan a teasing smirk.

"Hey, they're _new_ paper towels. So shut up and just open it, you smartass."

Clint pulled the paper towels away and arched his eyebrow again, this time in confusion. He stared at the cell phone, disposable, the kind he usually used as a burner on missions. He looked quizzically at Dan.

On a better day, he'd have continued with the sarcasm, making a joke about a crime spree and Dan being worried about 'the man' tapping his calls. But the moment of levity he'd grasped so tightly a moment ago was already fading. Instead he just waited for the doctor to explain the odd gift.

"There's exactly one number preprogrammed on that, _mine_. A new, super-secret one. You ever need anything – and I mean _anything_ – you use that. Keep it someplace safe, because there are about three people in the world that have that number, okay?"

Clint nodded, sliding the phone into his back pocket. He shifted towards the door, meeting Dan's gaze again.

"Take care of yourself, okay, Dan? And take care of Rachel and do right by that kid." He hesitated and then added more quietly. "Don't ever come back to this life. Kids need their parents alive…I would know."

Dan's expression tightened and he nodded seriously.

Clint nodded back and reached for the door.

"Wait."

He turned back in time for Dan to latch onto his shoulder and pull him in for a hard hug. Clint tensed in the embrace and then forced himself to return it, for Dan's sake. He owed the man something after all these years.

After a moment, Dan let him go.

"Take care of yourself, Clint. You're gonna make a damned good godparent to my kid. So you better be around for him or her to call you Uncle Clint, got it?"

Momentarily struck silent by the honor Dan had just promised him, Clint could only nod.

Dan squeezed his shoulder one more time and then let him go.

"Be safe, kid."

* * *

Clint closed the door to the supply closet behind him and leaned back on it. He watched Natasha, who had entered ahead of him, turn to face him.

"I don't like this," she stated firmly.

"I'll be fine," he assured calmly.

"I should be with you," she insisted. "I _want_ to be with you."

Clint pushed off the door and moved towards her, pulling her to him. Her arms went around his waist and he tightened his around her shoulders, tucking his chin down so his face was buried in her hair.

He wasn't going to make her any empty promises that fate might prevent him from keeping. Instead he just held her tighter.

"Just…just don't do anything stupid, okay?" she whispered against his chest.

He quirked his lips wryly, wondering if he should be insulted.

"At least no more stupid than usual," she added.

Clint rolled his eyes.

She pulled back slightly, turning her face up so they were nose to nose. He watched her bite the inside of her lip, saw the worry in her gaze. He knew what she was feeling. If he'd been asked to let her go off on her own this soon after Germany, he'd have probably revolted.

She was already keeping it together better than he would have.

"I get it," he assured quietly. "I'll stay in contact," he promised.

She nodded.

"I need to do this, Natasha," he pointed out softly.

She nodded.

He leaned down and she rose to meet him. The kiss wasn't long, but it was deep. He was the one that broke it off, but he didn't pull away. He let his forehead rest on hers for a moment.

"See you when I get back?"

"I'll be waiting," she promised.

Then, together, they headed for the door, leaving the privacy of the supply closet behind them.

* * *

Natasha watched with crossed arms and a clenched jaw as Clint's jet rose off the deck and into the sky. She felt more than heard Fury come up next to her.

"You sent him alone," she accused.

"Was it a mistake?" Fury asked, his own voice almost bearing a note of accusation as well.

Natasha hesitated.

"I don't know," she finally replied. And that was the problem. She couldn't get a clear read on Clint. She didn't know if he was ready for this. "But you shouldn't have taken the chance. You should have sent me with him."

No matter what she'd said to Clint, she wasn't okay with this.

Fury was quiet for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts. When he spoke, his voice was controlled and confident.

"I couldn't do that. For _his_ sake, Romanoff."

She turned sharply, zeroing in on him.

"You think I would have put him at risk?"

"No. What I _think_ is that he needed to do this on his own. You see it just as clearly as I do, Romanoff. He's drowning. He's needs to know that he can still do his job. He needs to know that he still has what it takes to be what he was before Loki. This mission, it has one purpose. To test him. Either he'll sink or he'll swim."

Natasha stared at him, eyes on fire.

"And if he sinks?"

Fury stared at her, face resigned.

"I have to believe that he won't. I _have to_ _believe_ that he is every bit the man Phil Coulson believed him to be."

Natasha turned away, crossing her arms across her chest as if to ward off the cold.

"Do you think he is, Romanoff? Do you think he still has what it takes to be what Phil believed he could be?"

She didn't answer. How could she? She didn't know. She didn't know if Clint still had it in him to be what Phil had envisioned as an Avenger. She didn't know if Clint could be the man Phil believed him to be…without Phil here to believe it.

It wasn't that Clint wasn't a good man all on his own. He was. It was the simple fact that Clint could never find it in himself to believe what Phil did, what _she_ did. He couldn't buy into the vision Phil saw of his future. His future as a hero.

Clint didn't see it. He didn't know how to look past his own faults and failures to see the man that lay beneath them. Phil had been good at forcing him to look past the bad and acknowledge the hope for good.

But Phil was gone. And Natasha didn't know if she could be enough to fill that void. Clint believed he was nothing but buried darkness. How could she shine the same light into his life that Phil had? When she was nothing but darkness, too?

* * *

Clint leaned back as the jet's auto pilot kicked in.

He plugged the flash drive into the jet computer and pulled up the mission file.

A Serbian militant enslaving a series of towns. Just the kind of man that needed putting down. It was the kind of mission he had taken a certain measure of pride in back in the beginning. Not that he'd ever enjoyed taking a life…no, it was that he was protecting other lives. He used to believe, Phil used to tell him, that the men and women he killed for SHIELD had it coming. He had a file, every time, detailing exactly _why_ they had earned a kill order. It had mostly been enough. But Clint had never been able to quite shake the reality that this was all he was.

He was a killer. Plain and simple.

It felt familiar in a way, to be headed towards an old-school assassination. He thought, maybe, he could do this. He could be this again. He could kill in the name of SHIELD and serve the greater good.

Only, _this_ was not all that was being asked of him.

He'd always believed he was nothing but a killer.

And now, here he was, being told he was something more. He was supposed to be a hero. And it felt foreign, like trying on a suit that was too big with shoes he'd never fill.

He had a lifetime of thinking he was less, that he was worth _less_. He hadn't started that notion, but he'd sure as hell fed it with the choices he'd made.

He didn't know how to _be more_ than what he was.

But he was willing to fight to figure it out. And he would keep fighting, always.

For her. For Natasha who loved him more than 'love' could express. Who completed him heart and soul. He would fight to be a man worthy of a woman like her.

And he'd fight for _him_.

For Phil.

For the man who had always believed he was better than he was. Who had always seen more in him than Clint had ever seen in himself. For the man who had put Clint's name at the top of a list for a team called "The Avengers" long before the world knew Iron Man and the Hulk. Before Captain America was no longer a thing of the past and before The Black Widow was a name the _bad_ guys feared. Before gods came to Earth and brought their magic with them.

He'd fight for Phil because Phil had _always_ fought for him.

And maybe...one day…Clint would find the strength and the will to fight for _himself_ again.

* * *

_End of The Untold Stories_

_wow. I can't believe it's over. That chapter was a LONG one, as my final chapters always are lol. We ended on a note that was a mixture of positive and depressing. On the one hand, Clint's there. He's fighting again. But on the other, he's still not dealing with what happened. He's still not coping._

_Please, if you would, drop me a line down there in the review box, this is your last chance for this story to let me know what you thought of it. I would love, LOVE, to hear all of your thoughts and feelings now that we've reached the end of this journey together._

_Now...what you've all been waiting for, the announcement of the next multi-chapter story. WELL, first I'll tell you that I'll be working on TWO projects simultaneously. The first, is a rewrite of_ **Vantage Point** _which was my very first story and is like the seedling that spawned the VPU. If you go read it now, compared to what you just read, the quality of writing is vastly different as I've grown as a writer over the past several years. So, Vantage Point is being overhauled and will be RE-published under the name **Vantage Point: Revisited**_ **.** _The original version will remain right where it is, so those of you faithful few who have been with me forever can still go read where it all began, and so any curious newbies can do the same._

_Now...for the next NEW installment to the VPU...the right to chose my next story was WON by_ **pumpkinpixel** _(i don't know your username here luv) who submitted the winning logo for my tumblr logo contest I held a few months ago. So the story is..._

* * *

**Not So Ancient History**

_When Trickshot returns to Clint's life, asking for help to track down Barney and Swordsman, Clint can't bring himself to refuse. But dealing with his past means telling the team about his former life and it means facing those old wounds that never really stopped bleeding._


End file.
